


Why Not to Steal a Company's Burglar

by mitsukai613



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Possessive Dwarves, Rivendell, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:26:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsukai613/pseuds/mitsukai613
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Company knew that Bilbo liked elves from the moment he signed onto the quest; what they didn't expect, however, was that elves would really, really like him too. When they reach Rivendell and learn this fact firsthand, they are all very, very far from pleased; Bilbo is, after all, their hobbit, and the elves have absolutely no right to try and snatch him so. As such, they all find themselves on constant burglar-guard, drawing Bilbo back to them or simply bickering with the elves themselves to keep them away, all to make certain that Bilbo leaves Rivendell with them. Or, well, all of them except for Thorin, of course. For all Thorin cares, they can just keep the burdensome excuse of a burglar. He doesn't care. He doesn't! Why would a king lie about something like that, after all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I decided to do shorter chapters on this one, partly because Wednesday snuck up on me and punched me directly in the face and partly just because I feel like it actually will work a little better on this one, and will make it just easier for me to break up in general. Also, update on upcoming fics, or at least how I'm planning on doing the upcoming fics; I've basically decided to cycle between Bilbo/Smaug and Bilbo/Basically Everyone Else, with this week's fic just happening to be Bilbo/Thorin. The next new fic I post will be Bilbo/Smaug and a lot more plot-heavy than this fluffy monstrosity because I've been doing way too much fluff lately and I'm confusing myself with it. Following that fic, I have honestly no idea, but it'll be Bilbo/Somebody and stuff will almost certainly happen.

                Rivendell truly was beautiful, even I had to admit as much, so long as I was in private and spoke the fact only in my own mind. It could certainly, however, use better food. And, I thought, glancing over at a tight cluster of elves that were surrounding a particular burglar, better company. I prodded at the green pile before me disinterestedly even in the face of my howling stomach and saw my kinsmen sadly doing the same. Soft beds and safety aside, this place was also absolutely awful for morale. Kili, seated beside his brother at my right hand, sighed exaggeratedly and propped his head onto his hand.

                “They could at least give us some ale. It might make this stuff at least… edible.” Fili shook his head mournfully, looking at his brother as though they were the most pitiful creatures who’d ever seen the sun, and pushed his plate away from him with true finality.

                “You know they don’t have any. Elves are too _good_ to get drunk. Just like they’re too good to eat meat. And play anything but those damnable harps!” he said, getting steadily louder with each word before finally actually turning his head in the direction of the elves who were playing said harps, who looked distantly offended for a moment before they stood and walked away. Towards, obviously, the cluster that was still surrounding the burglar.

                I sighed; he was being quite the little fool, honestly, and I couldn’t imagine he even cared. After all, he was here with his _beloved_ elves, and it seemed they’d developed a taste for him as well. Hobbits were, after all, rare creatures, found in bulk only in their Shire and, if the burglar was to be believed, only very rarely, if ever, straying, and elves took a vested, and very annoying, interest in studying everything they happened across. Well, it wasn’t as if it was important anyway; the damned grocer could _stay_ here for all I cared; if he continued on with us, he’d be naught but a burden anyway, and this place was full of creatures just as soft as he himself. Really I only wished he’d indulge his fascination with elves elsewhere, rather than right in front of my company and myself. I heard him laugh, a relaxed, carefree sort of laugh, and gritted my teeth. If he’d not go elsewhere, I was not above doing so myself. I pushed my chair back from the small table at which we ate, stood, and strode away. Perhaps I could find Gandalf somewhere and ask when we could leave this place. It’d serve the burglar right, to be sure, if we left now, and I’d be far less likely to cause damage to the last “homely house east of the sea”.

* * *

 

Balin’s POV

                It had been decades since I’d seen Thorin so openly emotional; many decades at the least, and even still he looked as if he didn’t even realize the way he was acting himself. Of course, that very well could’ve been true; no one has ever claimed that Thorin has anything greater than the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. I smiled faintly to myself and glanced over at the source of his frustration, the hobbit and his new collection of friends.

                For myself, I could admit to a bit of annoyance, no matter how slight. After all, I wasn’t, perhaps, quite as intense in my dislike of elves as some other members of the company, but I could claim no fondness for them, and Bilbo was, despite any misgivings, a member of our company, not of their halls. They had little right to hold him so far from us, especially at dinner time, when he ought to be regaling us with one of his stories. I’d have even welcomed one of his songs by then, given that the elves had set to playing the harps again, as if they’d forgotten Fili’s outburst in the ten minutes they’d been away.

                One of the elves, a very thin and very tall woman whose hair poured down her back, fingered his coat lightly, looking quite displeased at the honestly tattered state of it. He himself chuckled, gesturing and falling into a story for them instead of one for us. The cluster around him listened attentively as if he were some sort of novelty, and I shook my head, growing perhaps a bit more bothered.

                I’d perhaps grown to like the little thing, a bit; he was polite, more than I could say for the majority of the company, and always curious about any tale of our history I might happen to tell. It was a gratifying, really, to have the good conversation around. I wasn’t particularly eager to lose him to the elves, especially given how light on his feet he was, the fact that he had the highest chances of any of us to get into the mountain and get out again without stirring the beast within.

                He was, after all, the only creature I’d ever met capable of sneaking by my watch, which still shocked me when I thought back on it. Besides, Thorin would never cease blathering about it, if he remained here with the elves instead of following along with us, and I simply would not stand for that. I loved Thorin as I loved my own brother, to be sure, but he is not a dwarf anyone would enjoy being around when in a poor mood. Or, I suppose, a poorer mood than was usual, if one is to be totally accurate. In any case, I would have to get him over to our table again, away from the elves, and keep him there for the remainder of the evening. It was for the good of all of us, really. ]

                I stood, and the remainder of the company turned their gazes towards me as if they’d never seen me before, and I nodded my head towards the hobbit and his little party.

                “I’m fetching the burglar; perhaps if he’s gone, they’ll leave us in peace.” They nodded and I knew that none of them truly thought that was the reason why I was doing this; they, as far as I could tell, had all begun to care for the little hobbit as well, despite none of them ever admitting to as much aloud. I made my way over slowly, careful to look as sedate and nonthreatening as possible, as one could simply never be certain when an elf might decide to draw his bow or his daggers on you. Bilbo’s smile upon seeing me was absolutely luminous, and he immediately stopped his discussion with the elf whose hand was carding through the curls of his hair to address me.

                “Master Balin,” he said, “what a pleasure!” I nodded at him, careful to avoid even looking the elves in the face. Two shifted from their place at his sides to stand almost protectively in front of him nonetheless, as if I’d do anything to the company’s burglar.

                “Master Baggins; the rest of the company and myself were wondering if you might come and eat with us for a spell; you’re a bit more used to this food than us, after all. We thought perhaps you might be able to tell us how to eat it and have it taste as something more than wet leaves.” He bit at his lower lip to hide the smile that tried to form (simply a sign that he was better with us than the elves) and nodded easily.

                “Of course; I suppose I have been a bit distant since coming here. I assure you I meant no offense by it. I just became quite fascinated with Rivendell after dreaming of it for so long. In any case, I surely have no issues in spending the remainder of the evening with you all,” he said, before turning his attention to his elvish companions for a final moment. “Thank you for a lovely evening thus far, Liron, Hiben, Meren, Thennel, Rydhil.” Each of them nodded, but only one, the one he’d called Liron, responded.

                “The pleasure was mutual, Bilbo. Might I ask if you’re still willing to join me in the library in the morning?” The Halfling’s grin grew exponentially as he nodded.

                “Of course! I’d never deny a chance to see the library of Rivendell! Why, it’s famed!” The elf smiled and he hopped down from the elf-sized chair he’d been seated in, walking back to our table with me and chatting quietly as he walked, his hand around my upper arm as if I needed the help to walk. I wanted, for a moment, to inform him that just because I was old, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t keep my balance on flat ground; I had, after all, spent many years bouncing about through Erebor, through battlefields, and could still do as much with ease, but the touch wasn’t particularly annoying, so I mentioned nothing. Besides, it was nice, him being back at our table with us, where he belonged. He was a hobbit in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, set to reclaim Erebor, not a hobbit of Rivendell set to fall all over himself for an elven library.

                The other dwarves almost certainly agreed because they each offered me smiles, even if they were faint and fleeting, and the table was far cheerier with our burglar there too. I glanced back at the cluster of elves and found them looking faintly annoyed, or as annoyed as their haughtiness would allow them to look. Served them right, really, for trying to steal our burglar. They ought to know that no self-respecting dwarf would allow such a thing to happen right under his nose, with no complaint. I nodded once to myself, satisfied, and turned my attention to Bilbo, who was indeed attempting to make the bed of leaves on our plates more appetizing. After his efforts, I managed to choke half of my own plate down, and swore anew that we’d not be leaving Rivendell without him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my internet appears to be going somewhat screwy, so I thought I'd best get this posted tonight while I had the window just to make sure it did, in fact, get posted.

Ori’s POV

                The moment I heard that Bilbo was going to the library with an elf that morning, I knew I’d have to come along too. After all, I knew that Bilbo loved books, books of every sort, much the same as I did, and I also knew that much of the Company was afeard that Bilbo would not leave with us after the time came to leave Rivendell. Surely I could do my part to make certain he stayed.

                I smiled as I realized that at least I had a plan, and that was half the battle; all I had to do from there was execute it. I walked down the halls slowly, creeping towards the library even though I’d been assured it wasn’t at all necessary to creep, thinking that surely the elf was gushing about the stories of his people without even a thought for the true, good tales. I scoffed like Nori often did, although I don’t think I was quite as skilled at it, and pushed open the enormous, heavy doors to the library.

                Bilbo was almost immediately visible from his place at a large table, his soft, round face brightened by a large smile, laughter glinting in his eyes. My fingers itched for a piece of parchment and something to draw with; I’d yet to get his sketch, and such a pose would’ve been divine. The elf at his side smiled as well, but it didn’t look nearly so full of life, of honest joy; rather it was serene, a spare curve of lips, a faint crinkle of eyes. I felt a bit frightened, for a moment, trapped in such a room with an elf, and only my slingshot and a dull knife for weapons should he become violent with me.

                I thought for a split second that I should just leave, until I remembered that I had to do my part to dissuade the elves and keep our burglar at our side. I lifted my chin just a little and began stepping as casually as I could manage over to the desk. Bilbo’s gaze flickered over to me when I was a few feet away, and his face lit up in another smile at the sight of me.

                “Ori! Come here, come here; you once told me you could read Sindarin, didn’t you? Surely you’d find this fascinating, and the illustrations are simply lovely!” The elf seemed not entirely happy at my intrusion, but he shuttered it away as quick as an arrow’s flash as I settled at Bilbo’s other side, skimming over the text he pointed out and nodding.

                It was a fine little story, elvish or not, and as he’d said, the illustrations were very pretty. The elf looked smug, as if he could read my mind and see my opinion. I’d have probably said something rude, if I’d been alone, or if one of my brothers had been with me instead of Bilbo, but, well… I didn’t want to upset him. I offered a smile of my own and a nod that was as enthusiastic as I could manage to make it.

                “It is very nice,” I said, and he smiled again.

                “I’m very glad you like it; I thought of you the moment I saw it, actually. I was about to go hunt you down so you could see it. Ah, Master Liron, you mentioned another text, didn’t you? One a bit similar to this one?” The elf chuckled and stroked the burglar’s hair once with long, gentle hands, the gesture almost exploratory, as if the elf was planning some type of research, some experiment.

                “Back wall of shelves, furthest left, third shelf from the bottom, large blue book,” he said, and Bilbo nodded, hopping from the chair and making his way towards the directed area. He was bedecked in silken, elven clothing rather than what he’d come to us in, or any of the things we’d given him for the journey, and that sent another dagger of fear through my heart; if he was even dressing as they did, what hope did we truly have to keep him among us? But, no; I could not think like that! Who knew what the rest of the party, much less my own thoughts, would say to me if I gave up that easily?

                I squared myself, looking the elf hard in the eyes and jutting out my chin. The elf only arched an eyebrow gracefully, his eyes sparking with something that I’d have called mischief if I’d seen it anywhere else.

                “I never thought I’d meet a dwarf interested in our stories,” he said, propping his chin on his hand, and I glared, shaking my head. I knew I wasn’t nearly so threatening as, say, Dwalin, or Oin, or Thorin, but I was certain enough that I could stand against a single elf, of all things.

                “Of course I’m not! I’m… I’m only here to help look after Mr. Baggins. He shouldn’t be left alone with the likes of you!” I never thought I’d hear the laughter of an elf, not really; after all, they’re cold, aloof creatures, not really the laughing type, but this one exploded with it, mirth written on his every feature.

                “The likes of me? Why, I ought to be saying as much of you! Hobbits are delicate creatures, not suited to dwarves at all, really, but very interesting nonetheless. I’ve never met one before, you see; they so rarely travel. Of course, if they’re all as wonderful as Master Bilbo, I’d not mind visiting the Shire for a time myself.” I could feel myself growing offended very quickly, for more reasons than one and not all of them related to the fact that he’d so obviously insulted myself and my people. In fact, I’d almost claim that I was more offended that he’d called Bilbo a “delicate” creature when, despite my own first perceptions of him, he’d proved otherwise more than once.

                “Master Baggins is the finest hobbit to ever be born, and I’d suggest that you never say otherwise! Why, he’s as far from delicate as any of us dwarves!” I said, probably a touch too loudly. The elf’s eyes widened just a touch and he took a slight step backwards, hand cautiously at his hip where a knife was slung.

                “I never said he wasn’t fine, Master dwarf, simply that his race was, as a whole, more delicate than most others upon our Middle Earth.” I still made my stare as harsh as I could, crossing my arms over my chest as I imagined some of the larger members of our company might.

                “Yes, well, why don’t you partake in some elvish politeness and leave Bilbo alone? It’s very rude to try and steal other people’s hobbits; go fetch your own if you want one so badly! And, if you… if you try to keep our burglar, I’ll fight you!” There, yes, that was it; an ultimatum! Nori had always told me that that was the best way to approach a difficult situation. Of course, Dori had often very violently disagreed with that notion, and the elf looked not at all happy with me, just then. I cleared my throat and shifted on my feet, ready despite my fear for him to take me at my word, for I was the warrior-scribe, and I had sworn, even if only to myself, to earn that title by the end of the quest. I thought for a moment that then might’ve been my chance, but Bilbo returned very suddenly, a gargantuan blue book cradled in his arms and a grin on his lips.

                The elf and I both relaxed, him giving me a hard, angry frown and a distrustful look, before he patted the hobbit’s head once again. I felt my teeth grinding and my lips pursing; I didn’t often wish to fight, but then, I wanted very much to land a good, solid punch on him. A smirk flashed upon his lips before he stepped back.

                “I’m afraid I must leave for a time, Bilbo. Enjoy the remainder of your morning with your companion, yes? And please do feel free to take one or two of the texts you most enjoy. Ah, and Meren wished for me to ask you to meet her in the kitchens this evening. She thought you might like to help prepare dinner.” Anyone could’ve seen how happy that made Bilbo, and even though neither I nor the company had been the one to put the look there, I still wished to capture the image on paper.

                “Thank you, Liron; I couldn’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate the kindness that has been shown to me here. Please do tell her I’d be happy to join her, by the way!” he said, and the elf chuckled once more, nodding. I thought of the company and edged a bit closer to the smaller creature beside me, and closer still when I imagined the glower Thorin would show me if ever he discovered that it was me who’d let the hobbit slip through our fingers. The elf bowed nonetheless, though, and Bilbo set in immediately to showing me passages from the book.

                I realized something then, with Bilbo excitedly showing me different drawings and passages in various books: even though the elf had gotten the last jab in, I’d won. He’d left, not me. This was the first step! Perhaps, I thought, peeking over at Bilbo’s kind features, he’d stay with us after all. I’d done my part, and now all that was left was to tell the others of the elves’ next attempt to take him now that books had failed: food. It was time for another to prove we wouldn’t let our burglar go so lightly! I grinned and squeezed him suddenly, and he gasped, before he laughed and returned the grip.

                “You really are sweet, Ori,” he murmured, and I giggled, wondering if he knew how many of us would say the same of him.

                “Thank you, Master Baggins,” I responded, allowing the soft rustling of the pages, and Bilbo’s periodic exclamations, to fill the room once again. I hoped I'd get the chance to one day do the same with him in Erebor's massive libraries. Then, at least, he'd see true literature. 


	3. Chapter 3

Bombur’s POV

                I was settled before a warm hearth, comfortable in a large, elven chair, and nearly dozing when Ori came wandering over to me, his eyes flickering a bit nervously. I turned my gaze from the dancing fire to glance at him, and he offered me a flashing smile as if he felt that I required reassurance for some reason.

                “Master Bombur,” he said, giving a half bow, but I waved him off and sank more deeply into the chair. Elves or not, I’d not dispute that they had a fine sense for comfort.

                “Ori. I thought you’d be spending the rest of the day with our burglar, digging through ancient texts and blabbing on about the virtues of such and such over so and so,” I told him, tugging lightly upon the thick braid settled on my chest and stomach. He tilted his head, shifting on his feet, and nodded.

                “I’m afraid one of those elves has summoned him to the kitchens tonight. I did manage to get rid of the elf that had escorted him to the library, though. I thought you might like to take this one, though,” he told me, giving yet another small smile, his eyes wide and his hands clasped behind his back. I felt myself laughing and sat up slowly, thinking on the words as I did so.

                Bilbo, of course, couldn’t be allowed to stay here in Rivendell when the rest of us went on our way; it wouldn’t be… well, he had quite the knowledge of good, tasteful herbs and things, and I’d really hate to lose the extra hands over the cook pot in the evenings.

                “You’re wanting me to get rid of that elf that’s accosting him this night, then?” Ori flushed faintly, looking down at his boots and shuffling fretfully as he nodded.

                “I… I thought of asking Master Dwalin, but I was afraid he’d get a bit, well, bothered. And I thought you might be able to get the food tasting a bit finer tonight.” I attempted to look as though I were thinking about it, and even considering not doing it, but I don’t think it worked even on young Ori; I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, and even hear chuckles as they slipped through my lips and tumbled in my chest.

                “Fine, fine; I suppose I could offer some aid. I don’t want our hobbit staying any more than anyone else,” I said, levering myself to my feet and thumping him across the back. His smile was brilliant across his face, and the shine in his eyes revealed his youth as he bowed again.

                “Thank you!” he said, backing away carefully, and once more I waved him off, wandering vaguely towards the kitchens, entirely unsure about what I should’ve been expecting.

* * *

 

                When I did actually arrive, I could admit to being a touch surprised; I knew there’d be elves down there, of course, but I didn’t expect the sheer number of them, each and every one dressed far too finely for cooking but cooking all the same, twirling around one another with plates and bowls and pans held above their heads. A wall of woodstoves, similar to but larger and more decorated than those I remembered from my home in the Blue Mountains, sent heat that should’ve been stifling through the rest of the room, and Bilbo stood on a stool in front of one of them, a female dwarf with long, blonde hair standing by his side.

                I walked towards them as quickly as I could manage in the crowded room, which was, I’m afraid, not very quickly at all. Of course, the elves did at least make it a tad easier by making as wide a circle around me as they could manage, which, I assumed, was the first good turn they’d ever done any of the company during our stay there.

                I patted Bilbo on the shoulder when I reached them, interrupting something the elf was saying about seeds of one sort or another, and he whipped around to see me. I suppose he’d have fallen from the stool in his haste had I not caught him by the arms and rebalanced him on his perch, and I also suppose he realized as much with ease, from the way his cheeks flushed with more than the room’s heat. Still, he gave me a large smile, one that suggested he couldn’t have been happier at my presence, and I’d hesitate to name any member of the company that wouldn’t have felt a spark of warmth at such a gesture from him.

                “Master Bombur! Lovely to see you; will you be helping with dinner preparations this evening as well?” I nodded, giving him another pat on the shoulder and a smile of my own.

                “I thought I might be of some help, at least,” I said, and he nodded.

                “Meren, mightn’t you fetch a stool for Bombur as well? I assure you, he’s a fine cook.” Her expression suggested that she’d like to do near enough to anything except that, her pale lips pursed and her narrow nose just slightly scrunched, but Bilbo turned his wide eyes and his sweet smile to her and she could only prove again that not a being existed that could refuse such a face.

                She settled the new stool by Bilbo’s side with more harshness than was required, but Bilbo seemed oblivious, immediately starting to prattle about the things he could make with what he’d seen in the elven pantries, and the elf, of course, nodded in agreement, speaking only occasionally to add a suggestion. I wasn’t entirely fond of the look she wore then, though; it was intrigued and curious, the look of one who’d found something to keep, which simply wouldn’t do.

                Of course, I suppose it would’ve been better if Bilbo didn’t appear so content. At least then I’d have not feared him abandoning us to our fates, eating tasteless food, and far from enough of it; I could readily admit that we dwarves had but a working knowledge of the wild growing things that could be eaten, and that without Bilbo, who seemed to know every plant we passed with the intimacy of years of study, our food stores would’ve dwindled long before they had.

                I wasn’t, though, certain of how to turn Bilbo back to our side, even though I had tried to think of a way while I was walking to the kitchens. I did, though, know that there had to be a way; Bilbo was our friend, after all, and I knew he had a loyalty and a kinship to us the same as we did to him. Surely it wouldn’t be that difficult to elevate that kinship once more above the fascination he held for the elves and their culture, would it? Still, I knew little beyond my craft over a stove; even my fighting was done with my ladle, or my butcher knife.

                But, perhaps, that would be sufficient; hobbits had a love for the simple things, and food was foremost among them. If I could prove that I could provide him with better meals than the elves, then surely he’d stay among us! I nodded and returned my attention to the Bilbo’s conversation with the elf, finding that he was discussing some sort of fruit pie that he wanted to prepare for dessert.

                I nodded; that would be my opportunity. I could prepare something or another for him, and if I made certain that he liked it more than whatever the elves made, then surely he’d never think to stay here.

                “I’d like to make a stew for myself and my companions, if you wouldn’t mind. And some bread,” I said, thinking quickly of what I could manage with the meagre selection offered by the elves. Surely they’d have some vegetables that could be made palatable, and I knew their selection of spices was likely the best in all of Middle Earth. The only issue, really, would be finding something for a good, thick broth. Still, I was known for making the best food in the most unfavorable conditions, so I was sure it would work out well. The elf sighed at me, her expression primarily indifferent and only very, very distantly annoyed.

                “Of course,” she said, “Use our stores as you will.” Bilbo smiled once again, pleasant as ever, and settled a hand on the bend of my arm as he explained the workings of the stove in front of us, before he led me to the mentioned stores, the elf just behind us.

                That was the only moment away from them I took, but only because they sought fruit for Bilbo’s pie, whilst I sought proper ingredients for my stew. Even still, it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, and when I returned to the stove, Bilbo was more than interested in my plans, which I, admittedly, relished in a bit. I don’t often get many who are particularly interested in my skills, after all, and I, as any would, take such opportunities where I find them.

                I received but a few moments of undivided attention before I was forced to compete with the elf, however, and though I wasn’t particularly thrilled about it, that competition set the stage for the next couple of hours as we all worked on our own dishes.

* * *

 

                Not to brag, but when we finished, I must say that my stew smelled absolutely divine, and my bread was soft and hot, a rare treat for us dwarves, who generally have to make do with bread that’s hard, old, and cold. Bilbo’s delighted expression at the sight of the hearty meal was, of course, appreciated as well, as was the faint anger on the elf’s face as her own creation received much less ardent praise.

                It was when we emerged into the dining room, though, the company cheering at the sight of my large pot and the plate of bread and pie in Bilbo’s hands, that I received the finest compliment of the evening; Bilbo sat amongst us without prompting, his bowl full to the brim and a thick slab of bread on his plate, and ate as if he’d never before seen a meal. He, in fact, even had seconds. I felt myself smiling like a fool throughout the meal, which Bofur, of course, could not resist commenting on later that evening in our room, but I didn’t truly care, for that night, I’d won a victory for our company in our fight for the burglar. And the faint smile I’d seen on Thorin’s face throughout the meal, the one he tried constantly to hide but never could, was a wondrous bonus, to be sure. I’d have to get the recipe for that pie of Bilbo’s once we got back on the road, though. My wife would surely love it.  


	4. Chapter 4

Nori POV

                I swear, it was pure coincidence that had me in the elves’ gardens at the same time as the burglar, and that it had little, if anything, to do with the stupid, skinny hands that ended up on the hobbit’s shoulder not ten minutes after he walked out of his room that morning. Rather, I think, it was because of the exceptionally pretty silver belt that the owner of the stupid, skinny hands was wearing, and if every anyone says otherwise, they are certainly liars of the highest order and ought to have their beard hacked off for tarnishing my good name in such a loathsome manner.

                I crept along after the two of them, watching as the elf identified the various plants and things they passed, pausing whenever Bilbo seemed particularly interested in one of them to go into more detail, sometimes even allowing the hobbit to pluck a blossom and settle it into the basket he carried over his arm. I suppose I rolled my eyes, but only because the act was so silly; after all, they were just silly flowers. What point was there in dawdling with the things anyhow? Really there were much better things to do, like spend time with us. Ori, especially.

                He really had been so very disappointed when his time in the library with the hobbit had been interrupted by one of the nature-loving, tree-hugging, beardless pains. Why he had gone to Bombur afterwards instead of myself, or even Dori, I suppose, I didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter, in any case, given that it had already been done.

                I’d get payback for them upsetting my darling little brother, though; I was sure I could make a pretty penny on that belt, once we got out of Rivendell. Or perhaps before. I was sure it would bother them far more if I managed to sell it here instead, after all. And before anyone says anything, I absolutely wasn’t getting involved for the burglar’s sake. Honestly, I didn’t care one way or another whether he came along with us or stayed here, not really. Mostly it only mattered because I knew it would upset my brother if he didn’t come along, and not at all because not even I could manage to pickpocket him yet, thus marking him as the best fellow thief I’d ever met.

                Yes, it was only because my brother liked him that I cared, and possibly because Thorin would almost certainly give me a commendation one day for single-handedly making certain that the burglar stayed amongst us, and I didn’t imagine that a commendation from Thorin would involve anything less than heaps and heaps of gold and other such pretty things. I grinned to myself, creeping along after them and listening to more and more boring chatter about stupid flowers and nothing else, all while waiting for a moment to snatch the belt.

                I’d need to take it in a place where I could get away quickly, without being grabbed or stabbed or otherwise injured, but also where I could stop for a moment to brag. After all, it’d do little good if neither of them knew that I’d be the one to take the silly belt. I finally thought that the moment had arrived some time later, and I readied myself to leap from my hiding place and perpetrate my theft, but the, I heard the elf at Bilbo’s side say something entirely unrelated to flowers.

                “Have you considered staying here instead of going with the dwarves, Bilbo? I must say that I don’t want to think of you gallivanting off with them on such a quest.” I felt myself freeze up, something I hadn’t done before a job since I was naught but a dwarfling, beardless as I’d ever been, and as such ended up forgoing my plan for that moment in favor of listening to Bilbo’s answer.

                I mean, if he said yes, then there wasn’t a lot of point in any of this. I’d give anyone who ever squealed about this something to squeal about in a minute, but, well… I did sort of like the hobbit, a little. He told funny stories and didn’t yell at me when I had twigs in my hair like Dori does, and he really was a good companion for Ori, and… well, I just liked him, and I wanted him to be happy, commendation or no commendation. If he didn’t, though, I’d double my efforts, and make certain that everyone else in the company did the same. Besides, if worse came to worse I was sure I could convince Gandalf to get involved; really I was more surprised he hadn’t suspected me of his missing pipe yet anyway.

                “Hm? Why, I wouldn’t dream of it! It’s beautiful here, really it is, and when the quest is over, I certainly wouldn’t mind coming back for a time, but I made a promise to the dwarves to help them regain their homeland, and I would sooner give up my own Bag End than abandon them now.” A surge of triumph I perhaps didn’t deserve surged through me; the burglar cared for us too, and didn’t want to stay! Still, I knew that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stay anyway. There was still work to be done, further convincing, and I would not be the one to fail! I squared myself and set to following them again, ignoring the elf’s faint attempts at altering the hobbit’s decision, mostly by mentioning the dangers that we’d surely face, and though I saw him flinch once or twice, his thin fingers idly rubbing the petals of his flowers, his decision to follow us never wavered or even seemed to be in doubt.

                I grinned to myself, finding far more pleasure in that conversation than the one of the flowers before it, and watched carefully for the next moment in which I could leap out and orchestrate my plot. Soon, soon, just a few more steps to the left, right in front of that bush, yes, yes, that’s it! I nipped my lip once to keep my laugh bottled, and lunged forward, my fingers landing quickly on the clasp of the elf’s belt and unclipping it with practiced ease before I danced away from his grasping hands, gratifying shock painting his face.

                I shook it teasingly at his face, grinning, and spared a glance for Bilbo, who appeared trapped between amusement I knew he thought was improper and something like the outrage one feels towards their particularly misbehaved and embarrassing child.

                “Nori!” he yelped, “give that back to him this instant!” I might’ve taken him a bit more seriously had he not been stifling a laugh, or perhaps I wouldn’t have. After all, I’d never seen anything quite so entertaining as a surprised elf attempting to grab his belt from my hands, and I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to resist even if he’d been legitimately annoyed by my act.

                “I’m afraid I’d really rather not, burglar dear! For you see-,” I said, ducking under the elf’s arm and into a thorny rose bush, “I really needed a new belt!” And then I was gone, fleeing back to the market square, laughing the whole way. Behind me I heard the elf say something, angry as I’d ever heard an elf, while Bilbo apologized for me, his own voice still brimming with the reluctant amusement I often heard him take on in regards to Fili and Kili’s gallivanting. From there, it really was a simple task to sell the belt. I even managed to get at least twenty bits more than it was actually worth, given that elves are, obviously, terrible at haggling.

                It wasn’t until a few hours later, though, that I got my real recognition. The other dwarves had all been proud of me, of course; I was nearly certain that my epic theft would be their finest source of gossip for at least three or four days, and the elves themselves would likely never cease speaking of it amongst one another. Ori, especially, had had me tell the story again and again despite Dori’s scolding, and I knew that it would be a prime tale in his writings after the quest. Even the great and majestic Thorin Oakenshield himself gave me a nod of recognition, leaving me more certain than ever that I would, in fact, get that commendation even if it took him decades to admit that I deserved it for my efforts to impress and keep the burglar. That real recognition I mentioned, though? It came about very shortly after I’d told Ori the story for the third time.  

                Bilbo walked towards me with his hands behind his back, head slightly down, but smiling nonetheless.

                “Yes?” I asked, keeping my lips tight and hard even though I wanted very much to smile.

                “Master Nori,” he said, then cleared his throat, “that was… that was very rude of you, what you did today, and I don’t much appreciate you doing such things to my new friends, but… well, would you teach me how?” I suppose my expression must have frightened him away, because he immediately began to attempt babbling out an explanation. “I only ask because I’ll be expected to steal from the dragon, and I can’t imagine such a skill wouldn’t come in handy in that regard, and-,” I cut him off.

                “Yes, yes, I understand. I _suppose_ I could stand to teach you a thing or three,” I sighed, attempting to sound haughty and probably not succeeding as well as I would’ve liked, given the way he grinned, but then I couldn’t really get upset for it, because… well, it was nice to be able to teach someone my skills and not get jailed for it, anyway, and if it further cemented Bilbo among us, I had no complaints. I swear I really didn't intend for him to get hurt, though; after all, how was I to know that Gandalf had, in fact, suspected me of thievery, and as a result had booby trapped his pockets? Honestly, no one could have expected such a thing, and really, there was no need for Dori to hit me so hard for it. Or for Thorin to glare at me quite so harshly, because it also really couldn't have been my fault that an elf ended up with him instead of Oin. But of course, everyone always blames the thief.   


	5. Chapter 5

Oin’s POV

                The cluster of overeager dwarves that appeared at my door after dinner were not quite unwelcome, but the way they all babbled over one another so loudly such that I couldn’t make out a word between them even with my ear trumpet certainly was. Nori seemed particularly insistent on getting a story of some sort out, something or another about pockets, while Dori seemed equally insistent on contradicting his every word. I finally managed to yell loudly enough to get them silent.

                “Everyone be quiet! Dori, you tell me what happened, will you?” He looked pleased, cuffing his younger brother over the head when he tried to protest, and nodded.

                “My brother attempted to teach the burglar a few tricks of his… trade, and a trap for just such an occasion in the wizard’s pocket went off. The hobbit’s hand was burned, and an elf, hearing the noise, came before we could fetch you and took him off someplace.” Of course they had. Really, what else could I have possibly been expecting? The past few days had been nothing but, “the elves took the hobbit here,” and “the elves gave the hobbit that”. And the company had been growing steadily brattier the longer it went on.

                Which wasn’t to say I wasn’t bothered as well, of course; I was. I did, after all, want the hobbit along as much as the next dwarf, given his extensive knowledge of herbal remedies which had greatly bolstered my own knowledge, but I simply didn’t understand what all _this_ fuss was about. I didn’t, after all, think that the hobbit would leave for something as simple as a bandaging of a wound.

                “That’s… nice. What would you like me to do about it?” They gaped, every last one of them. Following that, I felt hand after hand close around some part of me and set to shaking me violently.

                “ _Go fetch him!”_ they yelled, all at once, and while I withstood the assault for a few moments, eventually I could stand it no longer. The joys of age, I supposed, chuckling to myself as I pushed them harshly off of me.

                “Fine, fine. Of course, I haven’t the faintest where their medical ward is.” As though I’d said some magic word, Dori, the most responsible of the cluster that stood at my door, took me by the arm and led me very deep into the main palace, close, I was quite sure, to Lord Elrond’s chambers. He paused in front of an open hole in the wall, blocked only by light, gauzy fabric, and shoved me through.

                I snarled, and thought for a moment to leave again and tell Dori just what I thought of his presumption, but in the end, I decided it would be best to focus instead on the hobbit perched upon a high, white bed, his hand burning red and settled gingerly in his lap. At his left, hunched over a table, stood a particularly tall, hawkish elf, who I assumed was messing about with some cure.

                “Master Oin?” Bilbo asked suddenly, his ear twitching as his eyes flickered from the elf to me. I felt oddly uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but I’d be damned if ever I showed that; it wouldn’t have been proper, really, not at all. I nodded.

                “Wanted to make certain the elf didn’t make your hand fall off with all his silly spells and miracle cures. A burglar without a hand ain’t much good, after all.” His good hand went to his lips to hide his smile, before he shook his head.

                “Now, don’t be rude, Oin.” I waved him off, making my way over to the suspiciously silent elf at the table, and received not even a glare for my trouble. The elf mashed something that was faintly green in a mortar with some sort of seed, his eyes remaining downcast, and I watched carefully, realizing suddenly the identity of the mixture. I announced it to him the moment I did, and he froze suddenly, every muscle in his body going tense.

                “What.” Flat, not a question, and painfully rude. An elf through and through, this one. I repeated myself, and he nodded very, very slowly. “Yes.”

                “But would it not work better with some aloe as well? Given that it’s a burn.” Bilbo was chuckling, then, quiet and trying to muffle himself, as the elf’s back stiffened even more, and he’d surely break a bone if he got much stiffer. I could almost see his thoughts; who is this dwarf, to tell me my trade?

                “That would go in last, so that it can better mix with the other substances.” Still flat. Perhaps I hadn’t read his thoughts as well as I thought. Still yet, it made him no more correct than before.

                “Aloe is near enough to liquid when sufficiently crushed. You ought to mash it first and then put the rest in.” The elf settled his pestle beside the mortar, and then turned to stare at me.

                “No.” Contrary bastard elf, as if I didn’t know my own craft. I had made enough salves for burns, after all; it became commonplace, when one worked near forges.

                “ _Yes_ ,” I said, forceful as possible.

                “No. It’s better this way.” I shook my head once, keeping it final, and then stretched around him to fetch the things I needed for myself. “What are you doing?” At least he’d finally asked a question, I supposed.

                “Sorry, friend, I’m a tad hard of hearing. No idea what you’ve said.” I waved him off, setting to making my own salve, all while the elf stared. Perhaps five minutes passed before he finally simply gave in and worked on his own, Bilbo working harder than ever to stifle his laughter. I spared only a moment to wonder why as I worked.

                It seemed to take no time at all after that before the both of us were finished and bringing him our treatments, and when requested to state which he preferred, he only shook his head.

                “It really doesn’t matter what order you smash it in when the both of you forgot the coneflower,” he managed through his snickering. I nearly dropped my mortar, and the elf looked close to doing the same. How in the world had I forgotten that? Damn elfish healing rooms. If they weren’t so determined to not use labels, perhaps I’d have noticed what I needed to notice.

                The elf and I spared one another a glare before we went back to the table, me dumping my own mixture into his (after all, one that had been mixed properly was better than none) and he dropped in the coneflower from a half-hidden jar on the back of the top shelf, mashing it in with the rest before returning it to Bilbo, who smeared it gratefully over the injury, still smiling faintly the whole while. He thanked us both when he was finished, offering each of us a quick, one-armed hug, before he yawned widely and said he was going to bed for the evening.

                I did the same only a few minutes after, but not without a quick parting word to the elfish healer.

                “You’d do well to keep your kin away from our burglar, friend, else you’ll be finding something far less pleasant in your afternoon tea than sugar.” The shock that painted his placid face at that made any consequence I may have later received entirely worth it, and I found myself giving a small, satisfied smile to myself for the remainder of the evening. And, if ever anyone asked about it, it was quite a simple task to pretend as though I couldn’t hear.    


	6. Chapter 6

Dori’s POV

                Perhaps foolishly, I thought a good morning simply had to be incoming, after all the troubles we of the company had recently faced. And, for a time, it really was a fine morning; Ori had let me comb his hair that morning, so rather than flying about his head wildly as it normally did, it lay in a relatively neat fashion about his face. Nori hadn’t been accosted for thievery again, which, while not exactly assuring me that he _hadn’t_ taken anything, did at least assure me that he’d been skillful enough at taking it that he likely wouldn’t get caught for it. Even the other dwarves were in a fine mood; Bombur had snuck into the kitchens early that morning and had us a fine breakfast lain upon our table when we entered the dining area, meaning we’d even get to eat well at least once that day. Yes, it would surely be a fine, fine morning, with such omens; anyone would think so. Until, of course, the hobbit came traipsing in wearing a… an obviously hand-knitted (and poorly, at that) scarf.

                I stared at it. I think most of the company did, actually, although it was my eyes that he met, fiddling with it almost self-consciously. I glanced over at Ori once and saw his lip waver just a bit; I suppose he’d been hoping that if the little burglar wanted a scarf, he’d ask him for once, given that he was rather fond of knitting. Of course, I was too, honestly, though I admitted it a bit less freely than Ori. Still, I had long assumed that everyone knew; after all, there were few others who could’ve taught Ori the craft. Bilbo shifted on his feet once, twice, before he heaved a sigh and took the free seat across from me. Everyone continued gazing at the offending neckwear.

                We knew where he’d gotten it, of course; the elves must’ve given it to him. A particularly young elf, too, if the look of the thing was any indication. Nori’s gaze upon it was quite dangerous, and as such, I surreptitiously curled my hand into the back of his jacket to hold him in his seat in case he tried something ill-advised, like leaping across the table and snatching it from the tiny creature’s neck, Mahal bless him. Then, of course, I glanced over at Ori and found that the wavering had gotten a tad more hopeless than before, so I used my other hand to pat his back as comfortingly as I could manage with my other arm occupied keeping Nori seated. Really, I had no idea what I’d done to deserve such brothers, but Durin help me if I didn’t love them. Normally. I was nearly certain that I loved Nori more when he was still. Or sleeping. Yes, Nori was the finest brother one could ask for when he was sleeping! I sighed, and the rest of the Company continued to stare at Bilbo’s scarf. I wondered if Thorin could conceivably growl any lower than he was growling without actually tearing something in his throat.

                “What?” Bilbo finally asked, wriggling in his seat and staring at his plate. No one spoke. I sighed again; obviously it was not only my brothers I would have to mother this day.

                “Your scarf, Bilbo. Wherever did you get it?” He flushed a truly brilliant shade of pink when he next smiled, and then chuckled faintly.

                “This? It was a gift; I’ve only just been chilly enough to wear it. Do you like it?” he asked me, and I could understand as much. I was, after all, the most informed of the company on matters of appearance, and whether they wanted to call me “fussy” for it or not, at the least I was able to make a good impression on most folks because of it.

                “It’s a bit… well, there’s gaps the size of three fingers between the stitching, Bilbo. I’d say that Ori could do a better job with less than a good day’s work.” His flush darkened a bit, going a tad red instead of pink, before he sniffed as haughtily as I’ve ever heard a hobbit sniff.

                “Well, I never! I thought _you_ had better manners, Dori! Why, this is made of the softest of yarns in all of the Shire! And, well, I suppose it’s not the _best_ made scarf I’ve ever warn, but… it is a gift, and the one who made it for me was only just learning the art knitting,” he said, half-smiling as though he needed to in order to let me know he wasn’t actually angry with me. Either way, I wondered how they’d managed to get yarn from his Shire on such short notice. I wouldn’t have thought that they had any more pull with the little hidden folk than anyone else did; really, I’d hardly even known of their existence before I’d met them, although Ori was quick to give Nori and I a history lesson on the hobbits shortly after we arrived. Bilbo had been mightily impressed with his knowledge, after that.

                “Thought elves were supposed to be _perfect_ ,” I heard Thorin hiss under his breath, almost into his palm as he stared harshly down at his plate. Bilbo gave him a quick, curious glance before shaking his head bemusedly and turning to face me again, obviously waiting for me to give some sort of response. I shrugged.

                “No excuse for giving a gift poorly made. I’d have thought your little elf friends would’ve known better.” And if I added a haughty sniff of my own, no one bothered mentioning it. Bilbo was silent for a few moments, his head tilted vaguely to one side in a way that reminded me far too much of Ori.

                “What? You think one of the elves gave this to me?” he laughed, high and sweet, shaking his head. “No, no, this was a birthday gift from my gardener, Hamfast Gamgee. We’re quite good friends, he and I; really he’s one of the few who did actually speak with me regularly.” All of a sudden, I felt the fool, and glancing around the table, the remainder of the company did too. Nori subsided as though he’d never been upset at all, but I decided not to release him for a time; he could be rather unpredictable, and he’d fooled me more than once by pretending as though he’d calmed.

                “Ah,” I said, “You could still have better. Shall Ori and I make you one? Sentimental as that one may be, it’ll do you little good when it gets truly cold.” His wide eyes went just a touch wider, until it was almost comical, but finally he nodded and grinned.

                “Of course! Thank you, Dori, Ori; that’s very sweet of you both.” The pride on my brother’s face was worth any time we’d have to spend on the accessory, not to mention the pride surely visible in my own expression. I relaxed my hold on Nori at last, finally trusting him to still his hand, but he proved it misplaced almost immediately, lunging across the table and snatching the ratty thing from the hobbit’s neck, dancing it just out of his reach with laughter in his eyes, not really trying to run, to take it, but instead simply teasing.

                It had been a long time since I’d seen either of my brothers so happy; foolish they could both be, yes, but I really, truly did love them, and the burglar was certainly well-liked by the both of them. I would not let him stay here, not with the way he made them grin. What sort of brother would I be if I did? Honestly, I would likely not have some sort of “epic battle” with one of the elves, as the remainder of the company seemed to think that had or would have, but I would certainly do my part and make my mark.

                Halfheartedly, I commanded Nori to give the scarf back, but he refused, even as Bilbo, howling with laughter, dived around the table to sneak up upon him and snatch it. The rest of the table chanted, half for Nori and half for Bilbo, the whole of them raucous as anything over the soft music and conversation of the elves. Ah, but I could never ask for better family, I thought, finally giving in and joining the chant for Bilbo until Nori finally decided to give the silly, holey scarf back.

* * *

 

                That afternoon found Ori, Nori, and myself in a quiet sitting room, Ori and myself knitting separate ends of Bilbo’s new scarf and Nori “perusing” the objects on the shelf. I made a note to make certain nothing was missing before we left; it really wouldn’t do to have the elves in a war with us over a missing candlestick.

                We worked diligently, and usually quietly, until at last we reached the middle and I knitted the two halves together neatly, Ori’s work mixing seamlessly with my own. I had to admit we’d managed a very pretty thing; the knit was tight and strong, and would certainly help keep the cold out as we moved further north. The closer I examined it, really, the more I decided that it simply had to be some of the best work we’d ever done. I nodded, satisfied, and Ori grinned at me, easily as proud as me.

                “Run and fetch Bilbo, will you?” I asked him, and he nodded, trotting off and coming back perhaps fifteen minutes later with the hobbit under his arm. At the sight of the scarf across my lap, done in a dark, deep, luxurious red that was rather pleasing to the eye but still easy enough to hide if ever we were attempting stealth and it would be too easily spotted.

                “Why, it’s lovely!” he said, and in response I only placed it about his neck carefully, tugging at it until I was certain it wouldn’t fall. I could see him biting the inside of his cheek to hide a smile the entire time, but given that he didn’t speak of it, I didn’t either. “Thank you, Dori, Ori, really; why, I don’t think I’ve ever had a scarf so fine! And it’ll go beautifully with the sweater Thennel made me.” I offered him a smile, but inside, I wanted to shout for the first time in ages; obviously, there was still work to be done. I could only hope the rest of the company was up for it.    


	7. Chapter 7

Gloin’s POV

                I’ve ne’er seen Dori as frustrated as he was that eve by the fire, shaking his head and gesturing widely towards nothing. I chuckled faintly at his ramblings, it having been some time since I’d seen my friend so flustered, and over something so simple.

                “A sweater, can you believe? A sweater! I’ve not got the time to make a sweater, nor anything better, and Ori certainly doesn’t either!”

                “I’m sure Mr. Baggins won’t be enticed away by a sweater, Dori. You shouldn’t worry so much.” The look he gave me, all raised eyebrows and annoyance, informed me of just how foolish he thought I was being.

                “It was a very nice sweater, Gloin; he let me see it.” I sighed, and probably would’ve reacted a touch more had Dori been the only one of my friends acting this way, but even my own brother, Oin, had at least partially fallen into this particular mess.

                Now, I was likely the most confident amongst us that the burglar would continue travelling with us after we left Rivendell. After all, I’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d caught our ponies just outside of his Shire, panting and certainly out of breath, contract fluttering behind him as he ran at our side. He was good, loyal stock, the hobbit, grocer or no. He’d not give up on us for something as silly and simple as a sweater, nor even for something more complicated, like good food, good books, or good company.

                Yes, I saw that quite easily, but the rest of the company… well, they obviously needed some reassurance.

                “Settle, Dori. I’ll deal with it,” I told him, heaving myself to my feet and beginning to wander away.

                “What? Gloin, it’s nearly midnight! Shouldn’t you wait until the morning?” I waved him off, shaking my head and going towards the sitting room I’d seen near my own bedroom, where clusters of elves seemed to gather late into the night and early into the day.

                As expected, there was a whole great pile of them in the room, sitting in large, soft looking chairs around a blazing hearth, the sound of tinkling music and melodic singing serving as the background for their easy, even-toned conversation.

                Silence fell at the sight of me, though; they gazed at me as if they’d never seen me, their expressions turning to ice, and were I to be entirely honest, I’d say that it did unnerve me, a tad. I had, after all, heard plenty of tales of dwarves in situations like this who had come out of it anything but unscathed. I cleared my throat and stepped inside, not knowing if any of these elves even knew the hobbit, personally, but certain that even if they didn’t, they could get my message across easily enough.

                “Not many dwarves of my company know family as I do; we’ve all got our relatives, yes, many of them in the company with us, but I’m one of the few with a wife, and the only one with a son. I’ve sworn to fulfill our mission for him, and for her, but I’ve also sworn to do it for my brother by blood and my brothers by shield. We are all of us kin, you see, including Bilbo, and I’d thank you to cease in antagonizing my brothers with your playing at snatching him.” The elves stared at me as if they didn’t even understand the words I was speaking, but I kept my gaze strong and hard until one of them finally spoke.

                “We… haven’t been?” Oh, yes, the elf looked innocent, and he sounded sufficiently confused, but I could see the pleasure in his eyes at his little trick. I glared at him for it.

                “Don’t play innocent with me! Why, you start by snatching him from our table, and then you go interrupting poor Ori in the library, and attempting to surpass our Bombur at his trade in the kitchens, and screeching at dear Nori in the gardens, and trying to tell Oin how to perform his craft, and even going so far as to surpass Dori in his simple hobby! If that is not antagonizing them, I cannot say what is!” More staring, and I felt my temper darkening, a tad, for while I’m not as quick to anger as, say, Dwalin, or Thorin, but I’ve never claimed to be quite as level headed as Balin. The elf cleared his throat softly, while the others muttered quietly to one another. I noticed suddenly that these elves were, very obviously, quite young, or at least as young as elves ever seem to be.

                “Bilbo chooses of his own will who he sits with, Ori was the one who interrupted Bilbo and Liron in the library, no one ever mentioned anything about there being a competition in the kitchens, Nori _stole_ a belt for presumably no reason, Oin was the one telling our healer what to do, and Thennel only made a sweater for Bilbo because Bilbo’s own sweater was torn out in the gardens during a certain fiasco involving a thieving dwarf. No one has made any attempt to ‘antagonize’ you dwarves.” It was, for a time, my moment to stare.

                “No, I’m afraid you’re misinterpreting things a bit. You see, family is a funny thing, at least amongst us dwarves; it’s often a rough thing, very unpolished, and sometimes perhaps a bit violent. But, we are family, we and Bilbo, and one simply does not try to separate kin without… shall we say consequences? Now, I’m going to ask very kindly that you and your sort cease making my dear family… nervous. I fear Dori is about to have a conniption in the other room, and Thorin is. Well, let’s just say that if Thorin is unhappy, we are all unhappy, and when he broods, he does it better and for longer than any of us. It’s really quite spectacular; I can only hope that he’ll one day help in teaching my Gimli such fine skills.” Mentioning my son’s name, my thoughts drifted, a bit.

                Was he doing well? It really had been so long since I’d seen him, and he wanted to come along so badly… ah, but he was so young! Younger even than Fili and Kili, the youngest amongst us, and only just learning to work his weapons. But my wife would teach him well, I knew that at least; she’d bested me more than once in combat, fine woman that she was. I promised myself anew that I would indeed see the both of them again, proud re-claimer of Erebor. And, perhaps, I’d bring Bilbo along to meet them too.

                After all, he generally seemed to quite enjoy my stories of my wife and my son; he even liked examining the portraits of them that I wore about my neck in a small, golden locket. Often, he was even more tolerant of the tales than my brother, and certainly more than the remainder of the company, all of whom had heard them more than once, surely. Still, when I spoke of the family who awaited me… I’m sure any father can testify that it’s often hard to resist such urges.

                “But we _aren’t_!” the elf yelled, looking exasperated. “I’m sure there are some elves who’d like to have him stay, but none of us here care whether he stays or goes! He’s fine enough, to be sure, but if I wanted to talk to a hobbit that badly I’d visit the Shire! It’s not so far, after all, and there’s far more than one of them there.” Tricky creatures, elves. Their speaker looked so honestly dumbfounded that I might’ve believed him, in any other case, but I’d seen well enough what they’d been doing since our arrival here, enticing the hobbit and driving us dwarves to distraction.

                Still yet, I knew when I was facing an opponent who wouldn’t back down, and I knew that this silly elf was one of them. I shook my head as sadly as I could manage, attempting with one final look to get them to admit to what they’d been doing.

                “Ah well. I tried, you really can’t say I didn’t; don’t say you weren’t warned with the less forgiving members of the company come about seeking a fight; as I said, family can be a violent thing, especially when protecting one of its own. But, even if you don’t want to admit to it, do let the other elves know what I’ve said tonight,” I told them, very generously I think, with a final nod as I turned and walked away, their gazes burrowed into my back.

                “Who _is_ Bilbo, anyway?” I heard one of them say when I was a few steps from the door, and chuckled faintly at that last, vain attempt to fool me. Clever, clever elves, really they were; perhaps my dear boy could learn something from them after all. Perhaps I’d ask, once this mess with Bilbo was sorted out. It really was too bad that the elves I’d found were so clever, otherwise I’d have surely had it dealt with. But, they were clever, and the matter was not dealt with, but surely it wouldn’t be much longer, and, in any case, it would at least be quite funny to watch. And I could certainly use more funny stories to bring home at journey’s end.     


	8. Chapter 8

Bifur’s POV

                I cannot speak Westron, not anymore, nor even my native tongue of Khudzul; the axe in my head had seen to that, and still I cursed the orc that had done it. At least, I supposed, I could still communicate, even if only to the dwarves that had long known me, and learned the meaning behind the gestures and grunts I used to speak.

                I could never claim it wasn’t frustrating, though, most especially when I actually wanted to talk to someone who hadn’t yet learned my manner of “speaking”, however rarely that happened. Still, even the memories of my frustration could sometimes bring me a smile.

                I recalled easily the first time I’d met the hobbit; I’d attempted to ask for something, bread and jam I think, and as soon as the first low, guttural sound passed my mouth, as soon as I began moving my hands through familiar gestures to make my request, he’d given me a wide-eyed, terrified look, as if his heart had stopped in his chest. Gandalf had soothed him quickly, of course, and explained my very particular situation, but really I don’t think it helped. If anything, I think it only made him start to think me half-mad, but honestly I can’t help it. It’s a product of the method; anyone who has to flail about like a madman to speak will, of course, look to be a madman himself. I don’t think even our fearless, “majestic” leader Thorin could manage to look average and unobtrusive in such a case, especially not if he had an axe in his forehead.

                Sometimes, though, my affliction actually comes in handy, like when one is in a hall full of elves with nary a friendly face in sight. As soon as I opened my mouth, spouting nonsense syllables that didn’t even mean anything in the half-language I’d created since my injury, the whole lot of them gave me a wide berth, and I smirked, heading towards the large, food-laden table against the back wall. They murmured, their soft eyes fixed upon me as if I were the oddest thing they’d ever seen in their whole life. I simply snatched the most edible looking thing on the table and began to munch on it happily, having, for the first time in my life, a table all to myself, until at last a smaller elf, presumably younger than the rest, was shoved towards me with terror in her eyes. I had to stuff a hank of bread into my mouth to hide the laughter that threatened to emerge.

                “We wanted to know if you would… like anything else, Master Dwarf. You’re a guest, after all,” she said, the waver in her voice nearly disappearing after she managed to force the first sentence out. I only grunted, waving her off, and she nodded, taking a few steps backwards immediately. “And, well, I also, we also, we heard that you were travelling with a hobbit, and that he seemed to like you. We were wondering if. If you could introduce us to him. All the older elves hog him, whenever you all haven’t got him underfoot.” I sighed. This thing with the elves truly was getting out of hand, and I couldn’t imagine it going much farther without someone, be it one of my own or one of these elves, getting hurt.

                After all, Thorin had been pacing quite… vigorously when I left the sitting room. The wicked aura that had been pouring from him since we arrived in the elvish halls and they began showing an interest in the burglar was only growing thicker as time passed, and Bilbo seemed to not notice it a lick.

                Not that that really shocked me, honestly; he was a quick-witted little thing, when it suited him to be, and when it didn’t (and I say this out of no dislike for him) he’d be lucky to notice the shine of Mithril in a coal mine. And Thorin himself, he wouldn’t admit to a damned thing unless and until he was forced to do so, and while it was admittedly quite entertaining, so long as I wasn’t in the direct path of his rampage, I knew that these particular elves didn’t deserve that fate.

                The others I’d been hearing about, of course, but these were little more than children, innocent of the whole mess and but curious to meet a hobbit. That I could understand too; I’d been curious as well, at the start. After all, it isn’t as though a toy-maker such as myself is often privy to the goings on of other races; hell, I’d only had an academic knowledge that hobbits even existed, when I’d met Bilbo, and he was… interesting, to say the least. I liked him, and he was one of the few beyond my family and my dear friends who even made an attempt to learn the language I’d made of signs and syllables.

                Still yet, all of that was quite unnecessary to consider, at least then; I simply needed to dissuade these younglings from bothering with Bilbo, at least until Thorin got his honestly confused emotions a bit straighter. Or, I supposed, until he could be directed at a better target than “anyone with pointy ears even so much as looking at Bilbo.” I shook my head, signing very, very slowly that they should wait for a while, but the girl only gazed at me with confusion painting her expression. I heaved a heavy sigh. My momentary pleasure had been sapped like magic, as it often seemed to be, and I held out my hand, palm up, towards her.

                She stared at it for a time, her friends looking caught between laughter and terror, but eventually she did as I was requesting and settled her hand atop mine. I used one finger to trace, in thick, simple letters, Thorin, following which I dropped her hand and used the same finger to mime slitting my throat, then pointed at her, hoping she could at least get the basics of what I was trying to say.

                She nodded, and I thought for a moment that it had worked, but when she spoke, I realized that it certainly had not. Although honestly, I really haven’t a clue what I was expecting; there had, perhaps, been but one or two times when something like that had actually worked, stupid as that may seem from where I stand.

                “I think he wants us to go speak with Master Oakenshield; I suppose he’s the hobbit’s keeper or something, for he seemed to think he’d be hurt if he did as we request. Funny, I’ve never really seem Master Oakenshield around him. Have any of you?” she asked, and I heaved yet another sigh, this one the largest of them all, expelling so much air that it actually made my chest ache a little. I shook my head, signing rapidly and yelling as if I thought that would get anything across from them, and actually managing to force out a curse or two I could still recall even after everything. I even shook my fist at them, feeling uncomfortably like my mother for a moment, especially when I saw the sheer, childish terror painting their faces.

                I do give them credit for staying until the end of my rant, though, despite knowing that they couldn’t understand a word of it, but as soon as I fell silent, they fled. Actually, to be a bit more accurate, the entirety of the room fled. I really, truly hadn’t been trying to do that, but really, it wasn’t all that bad, all things considered; at least I’d not have to worry about these elves, innocent of matters, being hurt because they stuck their noses where they ought not to stick them. So, in that, I suppose, I took a little bit of pride as I trailed from the empty room and back to the sitting room, where Thorin had, apparently, at last paced himself to exhaustion and now sat in one of the large, plush chairs gazing into the fire.

                “I really don’t care if he stays, you know,” he told me, I suppose only because I was the only other one in the room. I rolled my eyes at him, but I don’t think he saw, and grunted in a way that I hoped he’d take to mean something along the lines of, “Of course you don’t, your brooding majesty.” He gave me a hard look that meant he’d taken it exactly that way, and I grinned proudly; some things, only a dwarf can understand.

* * *

 

                The next morning, I was awoken by numerous claps on my back and loud cheering; my room was filled to the brim with my compatriots, all but a very few who I assumed were too busy to join into the impromptu party.

                “That was wonderful, what you did!” Bofur chirped, ever cheerful in the early dawn.

                “A whole room of them! How’d you do it?” Kili asked, childish glee and genuine curiosity in his voice.

                “I heard he had them pale as death, with hearts near enough to bounding from their very chests!” Fili laughed, and I laughed into my pillow as I sat up, a grin on my face. No, I’d had no intention of scaring those particular elves, although, admittedly, I had been forming some vague plans for that Liron fellow. Still, I had scared them, and in the process I’d likely saved them some further trouble, and it had been some time since I’d seen such smiles on my brothers’ faces.

                After all that had happened, all the failures and the hardships I had endured, from losing everything down to my ability to speak to going on this quest, I would take my prides where I could get them. And, if it meant that Thorin would get that damned look off his face a bit sooner, and Bilbo would feel as one of us but an hour sooner, I would only be more proud.

                I got the largest portion at breakfast that morning, and although Bilbo questioned our suddenly jovial moods, he was far from angered, and even joined in our songs even though he stumbled over the unfamiliar words. I like to think I even got a few of his smiles for my own, that morning; he really was such a kind, brilliant creature. I very much dreaded the day he discovered the reason for our joy that morning. And, I supposed, everything else that had happened since we’d arrived at Rivendell. I didn’t think he’d be pleased at all to know just exactly what had gone on, and really, I don’t think anyone thought he would be, but, well… for the time being, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and when he did know… we’d cross that bridge when we came to it, and we surely had plenty of bandages.


	9. Chapter 9

Dwalin’s POV

                Damn tree-shaggers. What the hell did they know about combat anyway? All that flitting about, shooting arrows from far away or sneaking up behind to stab something in the back. That wasn’t fighting, that was… why, that was simply cowardice! And there they stood, right at the damnable hobbit’s side, attempting to show him that particular “art.”

                I snorted to myself, fingering one of my axes and only barely resisting the urge to go over there and show the damned hobbit how to _really_ fight. I bet one of those scraggly little elves couldn’t even last a round with me! I watched Bilbo duck under one of their strikes, slowed from what I knew it would be in a real fight just to give him a chance, but the motion wasn’t smooth, and he ended up on the ground, the elf stopping him from rolling away with an equally slow foot pressing softly on the center of his chest.

                The burglar panted softly, lips parted just slightly as he gazed up at the elf with wide, admiring eyes. I shook my head, wondering at how such a display could impress him; a mere babe, younger even than Fili and Kili, could’ve defeated him! And then, Bilbo laughed, breathless, as the elf moved his foot and held out a hand, which he proceeded to clasp as the elf helped him stand.

                “My! I must say, that was quite… well, it hurt a little, if you’d like me to be honest,” Bilbo said, and the elf smiled. Or, I suppose it wasn’t really a smile; ne’er have I even seen an elf smile, after all. No, it was more a flash of distant amusement, fading quickly back to indifference. Although, it was probably the closest thing to a smile I’d yet seen on any of their faces, I had to admit.

                “I can imagine. Your weight was balanced incorrectly; let me show you,” he murmured, kneeling before the hobbit (and that was a strange sight if ever I saw one), long fingered hand wrapping almost clear around the his ankle in order to pull the foot slightly to one side, where, yes, Bilbo’s weight would be better supported and he’d have a stronger shot of ducking a blow without falling on his ass afterwards and rendering the move pointless. Perhaps he did know a little, I supposed, a very little. Or, it was just because this particular lesson was to do with balance, which elves certainly had plenty of; it helped with the flitting.

                The elf prodded and poked at Bilbo for perhaps five minutes, until he’d finally managed to get him in the position he seemed to want, and by the end of it, Bilbo was flushing red as the pretty apples he’d had in his kitchen the eve he’d met us. I was suddenly wildly glad that Thorin had had me come here to sit in on this lesson rather than doing so himself; I really couldn’t imagine him having the self-control to sit and watch this, not anymore.

                It had almost been fascinating, watching the slow grinding away of his countless layers. With each day that passed, he grew more and more short-tempered, prone to snapping at even Ori no matter how simple the request, and it had been decades since last I’d seen him that way. Of course, I understood; I often understood his anger, and equally often, I mirrored it. We had, after all, been the nearest of friends and brothers almost since the moment we’d met.

                He thought that the hobbit was as good as ours, and I thought the same; we (or, more accurately, our wizard) had found him, and no one ought to take a gemstone he didn’t pull from the earth himself. My hand had curled around my axe handle without real thought on my part, and I felt eyes, Bilbo’s eyes, burning into me curiously. I shook my head at him and waved him off, even though it did nothing to deter the eyes.

                “So I should stand like this when I fight?” he asked the elf, who fell into a fit of obviously rare, almost aborted laughter.

                “It depends, really. Sometimes, like if you’re ducking from a blow such as the one that felled you. Oh, do not look so horrified! Fighting is not something that can be learned in an afternoon; I have been studying for decades, and still I know but precious little. It would be better if you did not go off and fight at all, you know.” I ground my teeth, a poor habit, I know; Oin scolds me for it every evening, at least. Still, it kept me grounded, made certain that I didn’t run at the damn elf and give him a real fight, one he wouldn’t soon forget; perhaps he’d even tell the story, and then not even the other elves would forget.

                “Well, of course I hope I won’t have to!” he said, chuckling faintly. “After all, the dwarves are far from incompetent with their weapons. Still, if the need arises… I don’t want to be a burden.” The elf made a face, almost disgusted. I, too, made one, almost proud.

                “You put too much faith in them; they are toymakers and miners and smiths, with a scarce few warriors amongst them. Surely not an army capable of keeping one of its own from combat, should a battle come about.” It was far from the first time I’d seen the hobbit annoyed, of course; he became put out by something at least once every day. However, I’d likely never seen it quite so blatant before; the shadow of it hung over his pale brown eyes, and his mouth was turned down at the corners, a rare sight indeed.

                “Don’t be so rude! I’ve seen them fight, and I’ve never seen a group so brave before. I’m proud to fight by them.” I grinned to myself, fiercely, and finally decided that no longer could I stand at the sidelines and simply watch and listen. It simply wasn’t in my nature, really, no matter how often Balin complained about it.

                I walked forwards, and Bilbo, despite knowing I was there, looked a tad shocked before he offered me a wide, openly happy smile. I inclined my head in return to the greeting; we had spoken often, him and me, and by now he’d learned well enough that I was far from the chattiest dwarf alive.

                “You want to say we’re not warriors?” I asked, turning my eyes from Bilbo and lifting one brow. Bilbo gaped, shaking his head and looking ready to protest, but the elf spoke first.

                “It is not so much that I want to say it, Master Dwalin, as that I _have_ said it. You are not warriors; you are a company of thirteen dwarves with a wizard and a hobbit. Do not be a fool.” His tone was high and cold, distant as the stars themselves. I’d have almost said he thought he was Elrond himself if he’d been wearing a crown. I laughed, forcing as much bitterness, as much anger, into the act as I could manage.

                “According to you, we are all of us fools. Why should I try to make you believe otherwise?” I glanced at Bilbo once, a short, quick glance, only to find him glaring at us both. Honestly, I ignored him, and likely I’d have continued to do so if he hadn’t managed to speak before the elf could reply.

                “Now, both of you just quit that fussing! We’ll be here a while yet, and I don’t think either of you want to spend the rest of the time fighting, do you?” He asked, and I snorted.

                “I wouldn’t mind it, actually. What do you say, elf? Why don’t you fight me instead and see if you can say that we are not warriors then.” Bilbo looked quite terrified, then, but again I ignored it, assuming he was simply worrying too much, much in the same way Dori often did. The two of them were a lot alike in that regard, after all.

                “Dwalin, please-,” he began, but the elf settled a soft hand on his shoulder and shook his head, smiling.

                “No, no, it’s quite alright. I was very rude; he deserves a bout.” I grinned again, inclining my head.

                “I suppose there is some honor in you after all! What shall we fight with? I will agree to anything but bows.” Bilbo appeared to be having a very sudden headache, if the way he was pinching the bridge of his nose was any indication.

                “Oh, bother,” he murmured, “Eru, whatever did I do to deserve to suffer the stubbornness of dwarves, and their fighting, and their arguing, and. Oh, fine, do as you will, but don’t come crying to me afterwards!” And then he strode off, arms crossed, and plopped down very contritely where I had earlier been standing.

                I didn’t like the look on the elf’s face, not at all; there was a certain wickedness there that reminded me far too much of Fili and Kili when they were in one of their… moods.

                “Shall we duel with short swords? Surely you’re skilled with them?” I nodded.

                “Indeed; not so much as my axes, to be sure, but I know well enough how to handle them.” As well as an elf, certainly.

                “Have you one, or shall I have one supplied?” I grinned and pulled a blade from my belt. He inspected it for a moment before he nodded and drew a similar, if lengthier to match his height, sword from a sheath at his waist.

                We circled one another then, slow, testing, easy. I breathed slowly, waiting for him to make the first move, as I generally did; taking the first move, while often satisfying, equally often left one open and vulnerable. He didn’t disappoint; he lunged, light on his feet as anyone, and only barely did I manage to avoid the strike. He seemed to twirl around before I could even take advantage of his open back, seeming almost to fly, and came at me again. It took little time at all before I was struck, bruised and cut, but still I fought, still I tried to turn the tables.

                No matter how I tried, though, he managed to push me harder and harder, a faint smirk on his lips (and no, never have I seen an elf truly smile, but smirking, smirking they had down to an art form) until at last I felt my back press against a cool stone wall. I jaw ached where he’d earlier caught it with the butt of his sword, and my left eye was shut to keep the blood from the injury above it out.

                I tried one last time to have my sword meet his skin, but he parried the attack with ease and disarmed me.

                “Do you cede?” he asked me, half-taunting, and though it turned my stomach to do so, I nodded and he stepped away, offering Bilbo an easy goodbye and an offer to train again later in the day before he was gone. Even still, it was to my side that Bilbo ran, his hand on my arm and his eyes worried, if a bit angry, and I could tell from the sight of it that he was planning on telling me just what he’d thought of my actions.

                “I tried to tell you not to, Dwalin; he leads Lord Elrond’s army. Stupid dwarf,” he mumbled, “Come along, come along, let’s get you cleaned up. It won’t do if you come to dinner like that.” Leader of the army, of course. I swore under my breath; I wondered if I’d ever hear the end of this from the company, before I realized that perhaps it was not all a bust, at least.

                “Too advanced to learn from, I’d imagine?” I asked, phrasing it as a question, and Bilbo flushed.

                “A bit, I suppose; I believe he thinks, at times, that everyone was born with a sword in hand.” I laughed, clapping him on the back and feeling him almost buckle under the force before I recalled that he wasn’t, in fact, a dwarf.

                “Then why don’t I do it? I’m obviously not as skilled,” I said, though, again, I felt nearly sick to say it, “but at least I won’t kill you before you learn to even hold that letter opener of yours.” He grinned, then, eyes bright with joy, before he nodded, his curls bouncing wildly.

                “Certainly! Thank you so much, Dwalin; I can’t imagine how I could repay such a thing. Maybe, though, we can start with getting these wounds bandaged, hm?” he asked, and I nodded without really meaning to. The hobbit had that sort of way about him, I supposed; he was easy to obey. A good leader in his own right, really, fighter or not.

                And, I thought, it mattered little if he was a fighter; that was learned easily enough, and he was _ours_. We were the ones who’d pulled him from his little hole in the ground, who’d taken him on this quest, who’d defended him since. No elves would change that, no matter their skill with a blade, because he was our friend, loyal to us. But, a little assurance never hurt, of course, and at least if he was learning swordplay from me, I’d know he was learning it right.    


	10. Chapter 10

Bofur’s POV

                I suppose I don’t mind the elves, not really. Or, at least I don’t mind them so much as the other, older dwarves of higher stock than I. They’re a bit… frilly for my tastes, of course, and I can scarcely hold a conversation with one for a minute without it turning to something I’ve little care for, but there is no hatred there, not like what I see in Dwalin’s or Thorin’s or even Balin’s eyes. I can only guess that it’s a royal thing, and I haven’t got an ounce of high blood in me.

                I’m a miner from a family of miners; I never even saw Erebor in its prime, much less lived there. The same can be said for my brother and my cousin, really; we’re from a simple world, we three, one where feuds with elves are far less of a concern than the next good meal or a toy well-carved or a gem pulled from the earth and polished to a fine gleam.

                I’m perfectly able to admit that just then I was very annoyed with them, though. Mostly but one of them, a pretty girl with hands on Bilbo’s cheeks, gazing down into his eyes like the most star crossed of lovers.

                He and I had been in one of the elven castle’s many foyers, you see, having a smoke, since the both of us had run out of pipe weed within the first week’s travel. I don’t quite recall what we were chatting about, only that it was mundane and familiar and amusing, like all of my conversations with him. Beyond Ori, I was likely the only one who’d quite liked him from the start, you see; he was good conversation, and never before had I met anyone who flustered so easily.

                I mean, to pass out at a mere mention of a dragon! And when we quested to kill one, no less! I couldn’t even imagine a story more ridiculous, and yet… there was something about the little hobbit, I supposed, something that made me think he was perhaps more than he appeared.

                Thorin saw it too, were I to take a guess; I’m far from an expert on royals, but the way he’s been pacing about and growling and snarling… well, he likes Bilbo too, although I think he’d sooner cut off his beard than admit it. Or I could always cut it off for him, if he didn’t deal with this… with this… well, with this ought to suffice.

                The elven girl tilted her head, still gazing intently down at his eyes, and Bilbo’s lips twitched amusedly as she did so.

                “Liron was right; you have Belladonna’s eyes. Took through and through, hm?” He laughed.

                “Not quite, I’m afraid; I’m half Baggins as well. I inherited Bag End.” Her eyes, so pale as to be nearly colorless, widened a moment, before at last she nodded.

                “I suppose I can see that too. The skin, you know; you are a bit pale for a Took. Belladonna was a lovely woman, you know; I always treasured her visits. The last she came here, I believe she was pregnant with you.” I watched, curious; Bilbo hadn’t really mentioned his family, and from what I saw, he lived alone in his hole in the ground. He smiled very faintly, his eyes going far away as the elf at last released her hold on his face and took a step back.

                “She was amazing. Her passing was… well, I’m sure you know enough about that! In any case, it was quite a shock, my Tookishness emerging again! And in such a case! Why, I should’ve liked to start a bit smaller, with the adventures, but I could hardly refuse!” She nodded, looking a bit considering before she gestured that he take his seat again, and then did the same herself, taking the empty chair at his other side. I knew I should’ve invited Bifur along with us; I’m sure she’d have not come to bother us then! Nearly all the elves are terrified of him now, after all, for something or another he did a few days before. I still wished I knew how he’d managed that; it would’ve been nice to know, just then, as my conversation with him faded into the ether and he began one with her.

                They spoke of things I didn’t know; green fields and the things that grew in them, ceramics and sweet things and laces. I felt a fool, then; I realized all of a sudden that the extent of what I knew could scarcely fill a page. As I’d said, I was a miner, nothing more; I knew little beyond that, and would likely continue to know little beyond it until my dying day.

                I gazed into the fire, puffing softly on the pipe (and they did have a good pipe weed blend, the elves; I couldn’t deny that) as Bilbo chattered, until suddenly he fell silent. I felt his eyes burn into me, probing but light and airy as the rest of him.

                “Bofur, are you well? It’s not often that I catch sight of you frowning,” he told me, worry in his eyes, and the elven woman only watched, now silent herself at last.

                “I’m alright,” I said, “Just nothing much to say.” More worry, and he pursed his lip like a dwarfling before he at last began to smile at me.

                “Ah, I’m sorry; I’m sure the history of the Shire holds little interest for you. You’re from the Blue Mountains, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me about them? Bombur mentioned something, once or twice, about the fine kitchens.” I felt myself begin to smile again without truly meaning to; Bilbo had that way about him, I supposed, made anyone feel welcome and included.

                I spoke without being truly aware of the words I was saying, falling into old stories like nothing at all, and Bilbo and the elven woman joined in as if this had always been the topic. I began to like her a bit more as we spoke, at least; she wasn’t rude, like some of the elves had been, and I realized quite quickly that she was ancient, having come into being many hundreds of years before Smaug even thought to claim Erebor. Really, she only seemed to find us both to be novelties, fleeting amusements to wile away her decades. She was even a bit funny, periodically; my only complaint was that she touched Bilbo a tad too much, and that was less for myself as for Thorin, because from what I’d seen and heard, he was getting quite close to being willing to bite off the hand of the next elf that stepped in the same room as the poor hobbit.

                I knew he was worried about him leaving, I did; even I was, a little. He was obviously happy here in a way I hadn’t seen him since he’d chased after our ponies, and I could imagine he’d be far safer here than with us, but… he didn’t seem the type, really. He’d come to like all of us, in a way, at least from what I could tell.

                But, as I said, I am only a miner; I can admit that I don’t understand all of what has happened. Perhaps there is something to be worried over, I haven’t a clue; even still, Bilbo is my friend, and near enough to kin. If staying here would bring him happiness, I had but precious few complaints.

                Even still, he and I and the elf spoke long into the night, sometimes about things I didn’t know, but Bilbo didn’t allow me to drift away; he kept me engaged with quiet questions, his eyes alight with curiosity, and even as I yawned widely and almost painfully I didn’t want the evening to end.

                The elf never even mentioned having Bilbo stay! From what I’d heard, it was as if every last one of them were conspiring to keep him! I wondered, was it some sort of culture clash, a misunderstanding? Perhaps; or, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps I’d just found the only truly decent one of them in the bunch. I sighed and as even the moonlight began to fade from the room, I at last stood.

                “Shall we go to bed now, Bilbo? I’m sure we’ll have plenty to do come morning,” I said, and he nodded, yawning himself.

                “Yes; Dwalin, I believe, is teaching me some swordplay. Would you like to join us, Bofur?” I played at being offended.

                “Oh, you think I can’t handle a sword, eh?” He flushed, but whether it was with embarrassment or annoyance I’m not sure.

                “Oh! Well, of course you can, Bofur, but I thought you might-,” I chuckled, cutting him off with a shake of my head as we walked out of the foyer, the elf scarcely murmuring a goodbye behind us, and went towards the wing where our rooms awaited us.

                “I know, Bilbo; I was joking. I’d be glad to join you,” I said, and he grinned like a firefly, all warm light and pure happiness.

                “Oh, that’s good! Meet me by my rooms when you wake up, then; we’ll have breakfast and then go down to the courtyard. Thank you for a lovely evening, by the way, Bofur,” he said as we reached his door. I blinked.

                “No trouble, Bilbo.” He shook his head, smiling.

                “No, truly! It seems as though the moment I’ve come here _something_ has happened every night! I’m not… entirely sure of all of it, of course, but… well, you dwarves have been acting a bit funny, and some of the elves who greeted me upon my arrival seem almost afraid to even look at me now! Not to mention all the hostility between them and you all! Tonight was refreshing, being able to speak to you and an old friend of my mother’s. You deserve thanks for that.” He gave a thin, half-smile and hugged me once with all his strength, and honestly, there was little I could do but return it despite not being certain I even deserved it.

                After all, I’d been lost much of the time, floating only on words without knowing the meaning behind them, for much of the night. I’d likely cursed the elven woman almost as much as anyone in the Company in just one night. Of course, I didn’t plan to say as much; I liked Bilbo, really I did, and I saw no reason to upset him further. After all, I was certain that the rest of the Company couldn’t keep their… actions hidden for too terribly much longer, and we’d surely all get plenty of trouble then! I chuckled as I opened my door and fell upon my bed. My last thought before I fell into sleep was that I might be a miner, I might know next to nothing beyond my name and my craft, but at least _I_ had brains enough to see the firestorm on the horizon when Bilbo managed to get all the pieces together. And I certainly wasn’t the one who’d been doing the fighting. Or, at least, not most of it, and never when Bilbo was around. I hoped at least he wouldn’t do too much to Bombur and Bifur; they were family, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for this chapter, I decided to do Fili laughing at Kili's attempts, and in the next one, it'll be Kili laughing at Fili's; I just couldn't bring myself to do totally split chapters for these two, since, you know, they're Fili and Kili. I basically had to connect them somehow!

Fili’s POV

                I love my brother, really I do; anyone that’s been around us for a mere moment could see that. After all, we’ve been together almost for forever; I’m scarcely older than him, and everything we learned, we learned side by side. I’d never trade him for anyone, not even the prettiest Dwarrowdame in all of the Blue Mountains. Or, at least that’s the case most of the time. Other times, I want nothing more than to slam his head against a wall a few dozen times, and perhaps take someone more palatable as my brother. One afternoon, late in our stay in Rivendell, that was the case.

                He was glaring at the elves, for they were playing what appeared to be a particularly playful game with the burglar that seemed to require incredibly ludicrous amounts of grabbing and touching and things. I think Bilbo called it “tag,” or something of the like. In any case, that wasn’t really the issue; hell, I was upset about it too, given that we’d long ago claimed the silly hobbit, and if anyone was going to be grabbing at him, it was us. Or, I supposed, Uncle Thorin. I’d hate to see the man who tried to claim he didn’t have a right to grab at Bilbo! I shuddered at the mere thought!

                No, the real issue was that he was pawing for his bow at his back, and this was Rivendell. Now, I’ve faith in my brother’s skill with his bow, to be sure; he’s as good as anyone with the thing. I simply don’t have faith that his skill could stand against an elf’s; they were, after all, born with a bow in hand. As I said, I truly do love my brother; I didn’t want him to leave with a few more holes than he’d come in with, you understand.

                “Look at them!” he hissed over at me, dark eyes flashing, “Just look! Who do they think they are, anyway?” I nodded, hoping to keep him settled with conversation.

                “Stupid elves, I presume. Do you think they have a word for ‘mine’ like we do? I’d guess not, if they can’t tell that the hobbit is _ours_.” He gritted his teeth and lifted his chin, watching as one of the skinny, beardless things managed to tackle Bilbo, laughing, to the ground. Kili clenched his fists, and I settled a light hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shrug me off, at least, but I could feel the hard line of tension in his shoulders, see the shadow on his face.

                He was such a child, sometimes; not that I minded, generally. Times like this, though… there are plenty of ways to deal with these kinds of things, and acting like Kili obviously wanted to act was rarely the right way to go about it.

                “Obviously,” he grumbled. “Why is he letting them _do_ that? We don’t even get hugs because it’s ‘improper,’ and they get to… to… well, just look at them!” That… well, that was a good point, really. Bilbo was notoriously uptight about partaking in our brands of affection, and to see him give away his touch so freely was grating, to say the least.

                “Elves are tricky bastards,” I said, very sage, because surely they’d done or said something to get the little burglar to play a game like that. Kili and I murmured amongst ourselves for a while, me honestly forgetting that I was trying to calm him down (or get him somewhere to bash his head against a wall) in my own complaints, until at last I felt warm eyes on us, and realized that Bilbo was looking.

                I fell silent immediately, going stiff-backed, and elbowed Kili in the ribs to get him to do the same. He thought to curse at me, for a moment, until he realized why I’d done it, at which point he just swatted my low back to remove the slight remaining slouch there. Bilbo covered his mouth with a hand, blatantly biting back chuckles as he came over to us.

                “Would you two like to play as well? I noticed the both of you watching, and thought I’d best offer,” he said, giving us both a sweet, gentle smile.

                In any case, I turned down the offer; I knew better than to get myself involved. Kili, of course, did not. I wondered if there was a good, heavy stone anywhere nearby; surely the elves wouldn’t mind if I took one from one of their walls for such a noble cause?

                He leapt to his feet, spry as a dwarfling and twice as strong, and within moments the game had begun again, except now the elves had a suspiciously determined dwarf who seemed to be attempting to break their knees with multiple well-placed lunges at them each and every time one of them looked to be heading for Bilbo. I sighed; I wondered, sometimes, how he could possibly be so much like Thorin and never seem to notice.

                Bilbo, at least, only seemed amused, although I could see the faint anger twisting elvish features as time passed. Finally, though, Bilbo, who I guessed was sensing the impending fight, same as I had been, called a halt to the game for a few more moments.

                “Settle, settle; it’s just a game, Kili. I can promise that they won’t hurt me if they come for me. Meren there is ‘it’ you see, and so she must tag one of us, and it’s rather unfair that she can’t come after me.” Kili blinked, and I could see the idea forming in his head, knew exactly what he was going to do probably before he knew it himself. Not a stone, that was too easy; perhaps a mace. Did elves keep maces lying about? Probably not. Dwalin probably had one, though, and he certainly wouldn’t mind if I took it for such a purpose.

                “You’re right,” he said, looking penitent enough that even our mother likely would’ve given him a pat on the head and a piece of sweet bread. “As an apology, I’ll be ‘it’ instead, okay? So I’ll chase for a while.” Of course; so predictable, my brother! I bit back a laugh as the game started again as the elves scattered like fireflies and Kili ran straight for Bilbo, who yelped and set off himself, quick feet carrying him over the ground almost as if he were flying.

                Even still, it wasn’t exactly a fair race; Kili had much longer legs, and his boots gripped the smooth floor far better than Bilbo’s bare feet. Now, had they been outside, I’m sure it would’ve been a different story, but as it stood, Bilbo was on the ground by the end of a minute, Kili triumphant over his back.

                “Well, you’ve certainly got this part,” Bilbo grumbled, wriggling underneath him even though he was grinning like a fool, face flushed and eyes bright. Kili grinned back, equally foolish. Could I train a horse to chase _him_ , I wondered? Or maybe a dog? I did, after all, know exactly where this was going, and I surely didn’t want to deal with it.

                “Tag!” he yelled, even though I know he had no idea what that actually meant. Bilbo nodded, gently pushing him off and climbing to his feet as the elves returned and the game began anew. Kili, likely thinking he was still it, came for Bilbo again, but Bilbo was running after one of the younger elves, who he actually managed to catch and grab before Kili, confused as all, caught up to him.

                “Tag,” Bilbo trilled, and I watched Kili’s mouth turn down as he pouted.

                “What? No, I’m ‘it,’ remember?” Bilbo stared.

                “But you tagged me; I was ‘it.’ And then I tagged Eris, so she’s ‘it’ now.” Kili understood, I know he did; he’s far from the fool he sometimes likes to pretend. Even still, he knew what he wanted, then, and what he wanted was to beat out the elves and keep them from pawing at Bilbo.

                “But I like being ‘it,’” he said, and I watched as Bilbo’s smile turned far more indulgent. Damn it. Why did everyone always fall for his puppy dog eyes? It was really quite ridiculous. I might’ve said something, but really, it was all harmless, and he was accomplishing a decent goal with it this time, if nothing else. Really I’d have left it all alone, since Bilbo was obviously going to tell him he could keep being ‘it,’ were it not for the little elf girl speaking up.

                “That’s unfair! The game won’t be any fun if we all just keep running from him,” she said, and Bilbo seemed to see reason when it was least necessary for him to do so. He looked ready to nod, but then, oh, then, Kili went up to the girl with his jaw tight and his fists clenched, looking for all the world like he was about to deck her. I was on my feet in moments, making my way through the stock-still elves towards my brother, Bilbo, and the girl.

                “Listen,” he began, voice tight, “You’ve got no right to-,” he began, but I at last reached him and covered his mouth with my hand, ignoring him even as he attempted to lick me and bite me and claw me.

                “Please excuse my idiot brother,” I said, giving her my most dashing smile before I ran off with him underarm, hoping to find Elrond so I could have Kili escorted to the dungeons for fifty years or so to think about just what, exactly, he had been about to do. If he’d have spilled the beans then, we’d have never heard the end of it from Bilbo! I shook my head faintly to myself; it would’ve been nice if his plan had worked, at least, but at least I could assume that a game of tag would probably not be the tipping point to make him want to stay here. “Moron,” I mumbled, cuffing him lightly over the head, and he managed a good, hard kick to the back of my leg that almost made me drop him.

                I grinned; that was my brother, alright! A few years more and he might have a chance at beating me! I snorted. Yes, of course. That would happen, I decided, the moment a hobbit started wearing shoes. I really do love him, though, believe me I do; at least he’d tried to do his part to keep Bilbo with us, but honestly, he ought to know that big brothers know best. I, you see, had a plan that was absolutely foolproof!


	12. Chapter 12

Kili’s POV

                My brother is a bastard. What? It’s true! He’s a bastard. An ass. Quite possibly the most annoying creature I could ever suffer meeting. Which isn’t to say I don’t love him, of course; I do. You can’t be stuck with someone for nigh on fifty years and not, really. No, I loved him, but that made him no less of a bastard.

                He had me by the ear, currently, dragging me about as if I were a child and mumbling something or another about dungeons and rocks. I haven’t the faintest idea what he was on about; he gets that way sometimes, though.

                “Let go of me,” I grumbled, and he shook his head.

                “No, because if I do, then you’ll run off and do something stupid, like punch that elf girl.” I might’ve pouted, a little, but only the very slightest bit.

                “She deserves to get punched,” I groused, and he raised his eyebrows at me. I sighed. “Well. At least to have her ears tweaked a little.” He hummed, trying his damndest to tense his jaw and bite back his laughter. I grinned; my brother never could resist a good joke, same as me; it was the little things like that, really, that proved we were even related.

                After all, no one could tell by our looks; I, you see, am much more attractive, and, when speaking, my voice is much more pleasant to hear. He’s a bit of a… well, he’s not exactly handsome, shall we say. He is my brother; I’ve no desire to call him uglier than our ponies, however true that sentiment may be, nor do I wish to say his voice sounds like claws scraping over stone, although that may be equally true. I have some standards, after all, and he is my beloved brother, so how could I possibly say such cruel things? I really did wish he’d let go of my ear, though; he was reminding me far too much of our mother.

                “Yes, yes, shut up why don’t you; I’m not _actually_ going to take you to the dungeons, you idiot. No, I’m going to show you how you ought to handle cases of hobbit-napping.” Oh, this would simply _have_ to be rich! I laughed.

                “Is that so? This I have to see, brother mine.” He looked faintly offended, brow furrowing just exactly like Uncle’s, and it was at last my turn to hide a laugh. He really had no idea how much alike they were, honestly; I might’ve looked more like him, but he was, by far, more similar in personality. A stray thought slipped through my head, quick, before it was gone; the both of them would be fine kings, one day. I would be proud to stand beside them, whether I ever said as much aloud or not.

                “Oh, shut up. How is it that after all this time you still haven’t admitted that I’m cleverer than you?” I grinned.

                “I’m an awful liar, Fili.” He cuffed me over the head again, but it didn’t hurt. It never did, really. In any case, he dragged me until we reached a sitting room that Bilbo really liked, one with a particularly large fireplace and especially soft, large chairs. He had me sit in one and took the one beside it himself, slipping some wood and a knife from his pocket and scraping at it softly, quietly, thoughtfully.

                I watched him, admittedly curious and a little fascinated; I’d never learned carving. Hadn’t had the patience for it, though I had a good, steady hand. Watching Fili, normally so similar to myself, settle into such a task always caught my attention. Mother always thought it was funny, how I could have the patience to watch but not the patience to do; I thought it only made sense. I got in a hurry with myself you see, not with my brother, nor even with Bifur on the rare occasions that I got to watch him.

                Within an hour or two, a shape began to appear; it looked like… that _ass_! He was carving that pony Bilbo was so fond of! I glared at my boots, for a moment. Why hadn’t I thought of making him a present? Gifts had seemed to work pretty well so far, if what Dori mentioned was any indication. Surely I could’ve made something, even if I wasn’t fond of carving, right? Of course I could’ve! I crossed my arms and he chuckled, flashing a smirk at me as he continued his work. I wondered, could I get a new brother? Surely there were tons of folks out there eager to be related to me. More time passed as he put the finishing touches on his creation, fine little details that made it look lifelike, if miniature; he’d been told more than once that were he not a crown prince, he could’ve been a fine toymaker.

                Little more time passed before Bilbo came wandering in, looking a little surprised to see the two of us, but not at all upset. Rather, he smiled brightly as he came over to us and settled in a chair by me, turning his gaze almost immediately towards the dancing fire. He actually jolted a little when Fili spoke, drawing his attention towards him.

                “Here,” he said, “something to remember us by, when we’re apart.” Clever bastard; I only rarely understand why people insist on calling him silver-tongued, but when I do understand, I _understand_. Depending on his mood, he could sell water to a fish. Bilbo flushed a particularly vibrant shade of red as he took the little carving reverently, a small, sweet smile curling his lips.

                “Why, I don’t know what to say! Thank you, Fili; this is very sweet.” He ran his fingers over it as though it were a holy relic, and Fili flashed me a wild, proud look, far too pleased with himself. I huffed, but didn’t mention anything; after all, it seemed he _had_ won this round. I wondered how long I’d have to listen to him gloat as he drew Bilbo into conversation, but eventually decided it didn’t really matter as I joined in as well.

                After all, it mattered little who made Bilbo stay, only that Bilbo stayed, and if my brother could manage it, I would be just as proud as if I’d done it myself. It’s what brothers do, you see, even when they want to kill each other. And, yes, even if one brother, a certain blonde one, is a complete and utter ass. In any case, when Bilbo finally retired for his room, I offered Fili a nod in acknowledgement.

                “Very clever indeed, giving him gifts; I guess I’ll have to give you some admiration for that.” He laughed, shaking his head.

                “Gifts? Oh, no, those are part of my plan, yes, but they are far from the whole thing! No, you’ll see the rest later, brother.” Curiosity suddenly filled me; a secret plot, eh? Well, it must be very devious indeed if he didn’t want to share it with me. Perhaps I’d still have an opportunity to come out on top after all, if I could figure out his plot before he wanted me to do so. I resolved to watch him carefully the next few days, and see what, exactly, he had in mind.

* * *

 

                I hadn’t known that anyone could be so prolific at making gifts; as days passed, he gave Bilbo more and more, from simple things like buttons to replace those that had fallen from his vest and a handkerchief I was almost certain he’d pilfered from an elf to complex little bits and baubles, like a shiny golden clasp for his cloak and a bright silver ring he spent almost an entire day working on. I watched carefully, seeing Bilbo look ridiculously happy with each gift, and decided that my brother was obviously a genius.

                Until, at least, I noticed something else; Uncle was growing more and more annoyed with each passing day, even though the hobbit’s contact with the elves was steadily decreasing as we prepared to leave Rivendell. Funny; I’d have figured he’d have been happy, honestly, given how bothered he’d been by Bilbo being so friendly with them.

                It wasn’t until Fili made a single bead that he proceeded to braid into Bilbo’s hair that I realized something that shocked me to my bones; was Fili’s master plan to _court_ Bilbo into staying with us? Really? That was… that was… it was brilliant, yes, but it seemed a little… cruel, compared to Fili’s usual style; he wasn’t often one to court when he wasn’t interested.

                Oh. Was he interested? No, he couldn’t be! There’d been that girl at home, and… and… ah, well. I suppose Bilbo wouldn’t be the worst brother-in-law, really. I sighed, watching the two talk by the fire, Fili’s eyes flickering around him, and then Thorin came stalking in like a great cat, his eyes dark and angrier than I’d seen them since that one time I accidentally dropped his favorite boots into molten gold. They’d been quite pretty afterwards, in any case; I really don’t know why that upset him so.

                Anyway, yes, he was looking very angry as he came to stand before my brother and Bilbo, and he gazed at them both for a moment, eyes fixed on Bilbo’s braid, before at last he simply snatched Bilbo by the arm and stomped away with him. I gaped. Fili laughed wickedly.

                “What? Fili, weren’t you…,” I tried, a little unwilling to actually say the word “courting.”

                “Courting him? Oh, no; I was merely playing at it, to get our dear uncle to quit all that snuffing and snarling and tell him how he actually felt, and since Bilbo’s got no idea how our courting works, he was none the wiser through it all. Watching Thorin dance around Bilbo was really starting to bother me, you know; besides, if I hadn’t done something, he’d have ripped off at least one elf’s head, by now. Still might, really; perhaps I’ve only prolonged the inevitable.” I stared, for a moment, allowing all of that to sink in, before at last I found myself laughing like a madman.

                That was my brother! My wicked, wonderful, brilliant, complete bastard of a brother! I clapped him firmly on the shoulder and wished I had a drink to toast, but as it was I only cheered him for hitting two birds with one stone; we’d have our hobbit, _and_ Uncle would quit pining! It was amazing! I laughed one more time, and he grinned at my side; surely this would be the end of this whole mess, wouldn’t it? I really couldn’t imagine how Thorin could possibly mess this up, when Fili had as good as handed him the solution to all his woes! Of course, looking back on it, perhaps I underestimate my uncle’s sheer devotion to his rock-headedness, sometimes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry this is so late in the day for me compared to when I usually have stuff posted, but last night, I just kind of fell in bed and died for a while, and this morning, I didn't have time. Anyway, I hope the content makes up for the relative lateness, and I certainly hope you all enjoy!

Thorin’s POV

                Mahal spare me the idiocy of hobbits. I wondered, would Gandalf be at all offended if I simply left him here? Or rather, if I had him sent back to his cozy little hole in the ground; after all, he’d likely be far too _pleased_ if I allowed him to be left here. He’d get to keep his relationships with the elves, which would make him positively giddy, given that he loved them so well. I gritted my teeth and yanked his arm once in something that some might’ve called spite, but that I only saw as hurrying the painfully slow creature along.

                Really, I thought, first he enthralled every last one of the flouncy, beardless, tree-fucking elves with that sugary demeanor, those thrice-damned honeyed eyes, and then he moved on to my nephew. My _nephew,_ for Durin’s sake, and no matter when Fili came to think that he was allowed to court anyone without my approval, he was sorely mistaken. He hadn’t even done it right! Courting was more than silly gifts; that was a part of it, to be sure, but Fili was treating Bilbo as one might treat a mistress, unworthy to wed, only to bed.

                And for all his talk of propriety, the hobbit was simply… accepting it, even enjoying it! Even if a relationship between them were in any way appropriate, for a crown prince to behave that way was simply unacceptable. I heard myself snarl, and Bilbo jolted. I realized suddenly that he’d been steadily complaining since I’d first grabbed him, a confusingly familiar, half-pleasant stream of, “I nevers,” and, “of all the!”

                “Shut up,” I said, maybe growled, and I watched his mouth go tense and his eyes go hard. One would never imagine so small a creature looking so… angry, perhaps, although that isn’t quite the best word. He’d have looked more natural then with his hands upon his hips, perhaps with a foot tapping. He really was looking well now that he’d been being fed regularly again for a time. I shook my head; as time passed, it became increasingly difficult to remain angry with the hobbit, to even see him as the burden I knew he was. I was determined now, however, to remain angry for long enough to inform him of all the wrongs he’d committed in our time in Rivendell, of which there were certainly many.

                “Thorin! Thorin, if you do not stop dragging me about like a… like some angry child’s plaything, I shall…,” he seemed uncertain as to what he would do, and instead huffed rather rudely. I turned to him and raised an eyebrow, but he only glared up at me, a proud little thing no matter what I’d ever thought of him.   

                “I’ll do as I will, Halfling. You and I need to have a discussion.” He sighed, shaking his head at me.

                “Will you at least inform me as to where, exactly, I’m being dragged, your highness?” he questioned, rolling his eyes and sounding far more sarcastic than he had a right to sound.

                “Elrond’s chambers, for a start.” He gaped, appearing for a moment more honored than anything, as though audience with Elrond were the finest thing he’d ever been offered, until the annoyance resurfaced.

                “Thorin, I’m hardly-,” I cut him off with a hand and a shake of my head, and he glared even harder than before, somehow.

                “I asked you to be silent. Elrond will not care about your state of dress, or your preparedness for such a meeting, or whatever other silly little trifle you were preparing to fret over.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to simply stop where he stood, until he realized how foolish such an attempt would be.

                “You know, Thorin, I will freely admit that you are, in fact, a king; what I will not say is that you are _my_ king. Nothing gives you authority over me to do… to do this!” And nothing had given him authority to so thoroughly burrow himself beneath my skin. I thought of telling him so, until I decided that silence was the better choice and simply forced him to a pause before the door of Elrond’s chambers. He took a deep breath and resisted the obvious urge to comment again as I opened the large, heavy door and escorted him inside.

                I caught sight of a rare, exceptionally satisfying look of surprise on the elf lord’s face, until he quickly replaced it with an urbane smile.

                “Master Thorin, what a pleasant surprise. Have you been well here? I’ve seen very little of you.” I nodded once, stiff, and the hobbit glanced impatiently at my hand encircling his arm. I didn’t bother to heed his unspoken request. “And you, Master Bilbo? It has been some time since my people have had a hobbit in their midst. I’m sure your presence has brought much pleasure to my halls.” Pleasure indeed. My arm jerked, an odd muscle twitch, and sent him stumbling closer to me.

                “That is part of the reason for my visit today. I’m afraid I take some issue with a member of my company fraternizing with your elves.” Elrond gave me a very slow, very deliberate look, and Bilbo gaped, looking fit to start shouting at me again very shortly. I wondered if, perhaps, one of Elrond’s guards would hold him for me instead, before I decided that letting one of the damned elves get ahold of him would only be counterproductive.

                “Ah,” Elrond sighed, one overlong hand pressing against his forehead. “Oh. Oh, dear, you’re quite serious, aren’t you? Of course you are. Alright. Master Oakenshield, I’m very sorry if my people have… offended you by their interest in Bilbo, but as I said, it’s very rare that a hobbit ever even thinks to leave the Shire, much less makes it all the way here. You must forgive them their fascination.” Unacceptable. I would not allow one of _my_ company, _my_ hobbit, to-. I sighed; thoughts like that were coming more and more often by the day, and just like my failed attempts to be angry with him, they occurred despite my attempts to fight them. I tried desperately to remember that I cared only because I didn’t want the damned hobbit to stay here, thrilled to his bones; I wanted him to go home.

                “I care little for their ‘interest’ so long as it remains innocent and does not affect the remainder of my company. However, your elves have, for many days, been bothering my dwarves with their involvement.” I nodded once, very faint. Balin, at least, would be proud of me for handling this politely. Elrond raised an eyebrow. Shock was apparent on his face again for a few moment, but just as before, he wiped it away quickly.

                “Master Oakenshield, I’m afraid that I’ve been hearing of much the same, only in reverse. I’ve heard reports of rudeness, thievery, even some threats of violence or competition. I had not wanted to believe it, of course, but-,” Bilbo stopped him with a strangled, annoyed yell. He turned towards me with a warrior’s rage on his face that I could scarcely believe.

                “ _That’s_ what’s been going on? You… you _dwarves_ have been… fighting with them, and that is why you have all been acting so strangely! How dare you! Why, how dare any of you! Were we not here to rest, to enjoy ourselves? And I can’t even be friendly without risking innocent elves! Whatever have I done to be cursed with you lot?” He threw his free arm into the air, face flushing, and I lifted my head, tensed my jaw, caught between amusement and anger.

                ”You made the choice to come with us, Halfling. You knew well enough our feelings towards this place.” He sighed, shaking his head and still glaring up at me as if he weren’t a good three or four inches shorter than I, and a great deal less skilled with a blade.

                “I only wish you all would make up your minds. Do you care for me, do you want me here, or do you not? All I ask is an answer to that. I will not live in… in limbo, Thorin; either you all treat me as a friend, or cease in keeping me from having others. I am a hobbit, Thorin. I am used you being always with others, to having parties, to large families. You must understand that I will always seek that.” He appeared to be relaxing somewhat, looking more… sad than anything. My chest ached faintly; he had been flailing a bit before. Had he actually managed to hit me? I opened my mouth, preparing to speak, until Elrond interrupted.

               He stood and came over to us, kneeling before Bilbo to look directly into his face. Bilbo flushed again; I glared.

               “You really do look so like your mother, Bilbo, my friend. She once told me that she prayed you would; she joked often that if you looked like your father, you would be too often mistaken for a dog. I told her many years ago, before even she met Bungo, that she was welcome always in our halls. Should you wish it, I offer the same honor to you.” He smiled, taking Elrond’s proffered hand in his own and accepting the light press of lips to either of his cheeks. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but I refused to stand for him agreeing to remain here, and I could see few other options for the conversation’s end. I suppose I might’ve snarled, might’ve done something, said something foolish, but primarily I remember giving Bilbo a sharp, sudden tug to free him from Elrond’s grasp, at which point I simply dragged him from Elrond’s chambers and to my own.

                He was talking again on the way, yelling, but for some reason, I couldn’t seem to follow the words. My skull buzzed, my thoughts busy, and a bitter taste lingered on my tongue as I tugged open the door and pushed him inside, at last releasing his arm. He squawked, looking for all the world like an angry, fluffed up little bird. I bit the inside of my cheek; for some reason, the thought made me want to smile.

“And _what_ is the meaning of _this_?” he asked, hands on his hips, lips turned down, and, as I’d suspected, he looked much more natural that way, when he was angry. I glowered nonetheless. He sighed. “Well?”

“You… I forbid you to stay here. If you do not wish to travel with us any longer, fine; I’d prefer not to travel with my nephew mooning and smitten anyway. You simply cannot remain here.” He stared at me, as though I’d been speaking another tongue entirely, and I thought for a moment; had I accidentally slipped into Khudzul? I did that periodically, when I was… upset.

“Thorin, I’m afraid I don’t understand. What do you mean your nephew mooning and smitten?” Did he not… oh, Mahal, but I was going to kill Kili, and possibly his brother with him. Neither of them had even told the hobbit he was being courted!

“You hadn’t noticed? Fili has been courting you for days. I suppose watching you prance about with your dear elves spurred him on. Of course, he hasn’t’ been courting you in the way you ought to be courted; perhaps that’s why you didn’t see. I’ll… chat with him, of course, should you be… receptive. And, again, if you are not, I care little where you go, only that you don’t stay here.” The elves would likely tear him in two if any tried to act on their “interest,” and I’d certainly seen them looking often enough that I knew they would. Again, though, Balin would’ve been quite proud of me; I was angry, at the elves, at Fili, at Bilbo, and even at myself, a bit, but I kept my voice steady and pointedly didn’t shout. I looked at Bilbo, watching an entire range of emotions flash across his face, until at last he… started laughing.  

“Thorin,” he finally managed, “Thorin, are you jealous?” Jealous? How dare he presume that! I was king under the mountain, whether I had the mountain or not; I did not get _jealous_ , most especially not over foolish little hobbits, no matter how brave, how kind, how pretty.

“That’s a foolish suggestion, Halfling.” He smirked, stifling another laugh as he stepped closer to me.

                “Alright. In any case, if you did happen to be jealous, I’d want you to know that you had no reason to be. Elves, and your nephew, are all fine company, to be sure, but I seem to have picked up a taste for a certain dwarven king, suborn and idiotic as he may be.” I gaped, rather un-kingly, and he laughed again, hand settling on the curve of my elbow. “Have I offended his majesty?” he teased, and, very slowly, I shook my head.

                “No. No, you haven’t. Halfling-,” he shook his head.

                “Quit with the ‘Halfling,’ will you? Call me Bilbo. Whether you care for me or not, I consider you a friend.”  

                “Bilbo, then. How long have you…,” he shrugged, smiling crookedly, his eyes flashing with happiness.

                “Some time, I’m afraid; I had thought you knew, really, and that was why you hated me so, but I suppose the both of us were wrong, hm? My interest in elves is… academic, I suppose you could say, as is their interest in me. I grew up hearing tales of them; of course I’m curious now that I’m finally here. As for Fili… well, I suspect he was simply trying to get a rise out of you, not court me. Now, Thorin, if you’re not averse to it, and I don’t think you are, I should like to kiss you now.” My breath caught; the air in the room was thick. Were the elves burning incense nearby? Probably so; it seemed a bad habit of theirs.

                Even still, I wondered for a moment; was I averse? I’d spent so long hating the hobbit. Or had I? I was unsure; from the moment I’d met him, I’d found him… exotic, I suppose is the best word. Pretty, interesting, intelligent. I’d wanted to dislike him, though; I hadn’t chosen him, Gandalf had, and it was not Gandalf’s quest. I hadn’t thought he had any business selecting a member of my party. Dwalin says I’m thicker than the stone our people mine. Perhaps he’s right.

                Bilbo had proven himself many times over, and I’d been too… you know, the saying, “stubborn as a dwarf” does have some meaning. I sighed to myself; I was a fool. Would Bilbo forgive me for it, I wondered? I bent down and pulled him to me, kissing him lightly, and he sighed against my lips, stood on his toes to press more firmly against me.

                My hands slid down almost of their own accord, and he half-giggled against my lips as I grabbed at him. I felt myself getting hard too quickly from a simple kiss, and was reminded suddenly of how _long_ it had been since I’d felt another warm body against mine. Too long, I thought now, I should’ve realized _this_ sooner, because I had been jealous, I had been stupid, and had I only _known_ it I could’ve had this-.

                Someone knocked on the door. Bilbo laughed again. I groaned, panting and probably flushed and looking not a damn thing like a king. The door opened, and on the other side stood, obviously, Fili and Kili. They were propped against each other laughing in seconds, howling with it, and Bilbo hid his own smile behind his hand.

                “We wanted to make sure you weren’t planning to hurt Bilbo,” Kili said.

                “But we see that that is exactly the opposite of what is happening. Good on you, uncle; I’m glad you finally pulled your head out of your ass long enough to notice,” Fili finished, and Kili nodded.

                “Indeed. You two have fun now! Try not to be too hard on him, Bilbo; you’ve seen he’s a bit… well, thick.”

                “Yes, and don’t be too loud either! I’d like to sleep tonight.”

                “Oh, the company will love to hear of this, don’t you think! Let’s go tell them, then they can be as loud as they desire!” Fili agreed, grinning, and the two of them slammed the door, gone just like that.

                “Those little shits,” I hissed, and Bilbo only laughed again. I was going to _kill_ them, and Dis, at this point, would surely not be able to blame me for it. But, that could be tended to later. Right then, I had a certain hobbit at my side, arms around me, and that was not an opportunity to waste.


End file.
